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FILM REVIEW: LULA, SON OF BRAZIL

2012-01-26T08:39:00.000-08:00

A scene from Lula, Son of Brazil.

Rise for the classes

By Ed Rampell

In the past few years a slew of biopics about recent European rightwing leaders have been released, including The Conquest (about Nicolas Sarkozy’s rise to France’s presidency), The Iron Lady (with Meryl Streep as British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher), The Queen (about Queen Elizabeth and Britain’s sellout and warmonger, Prime Minister Tony Blair), as well as Il Caimano, which lampoons Italy’s buffoonish Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi. Now there’s a feature to cheer for about one of the good guys, as Fabio Barreto’s Lula, Son of Brazil joins Clint Eastwood’s ode to Nelson Mandela, Invictus, as a biopic about a left-leaning leader.

This stylish, stirring, poignant picture follows Luis Inacio Lula da Silva from his birth and humble origins in Brazilian hinterlands to his migration to the urban squalor of São Paolo’s favelas. Lula is real salt of the Earth, a man of the people, who during his childhood was a shoeshine boy and fruit peddler. His father is a ne’er-do-well who deserts the family, although his mother, Dona Lindu (Gloria Pires) is a loving, nurturing, encouraging pillar of strength. Several actors portray Lula from childhood to adulthood, and newcomer Rui Ricardo Diaz incarnates the grownup metal worker as he rises in the ranks of the trade union movement that challenges the factory bosses and Brazil’s military dictatorship. Like Mandela, Lula becomes a political prisoner (albeit for a far shorter time than his South African counterpart) who eventually became head of state.

Along the way, Lula endures personal tragedy and loss, as well as public struggles against the military regime. Sequences of factory strikes, occupations, rallies, demonstrations and government crackdowns are shot with cinematic verve and gusto by Gustavo Hadba, and reminded me of 1969’s Z, the Costa-Gavras classic about the Greek colonels’ coup that won the Best Foreign Film Oscar. However, Barreto and his cinematographer Hadba also have keen eyes for filmically rendered, often exquisite close-ups that bring viewers into the drama.

It is this balance of the political and the personal, in terms of film form and content, that makes Lula, Son of Brazil so gripping. The private family and romantic elements are organically linked to the mass drama – just as they are in real life, too. Like the moving father-son relationship in A Better Life, the mother-son relationship between Lula and Lindu is extremely touching, and of course emphasizes how parenting is the most important job in the world. This is one of the best silver screen depictions of a mother-son relationship set against a social backdrop since V.I. Pudovkin’s 1926 Soviet revolutionary silent masterpiece, Mother, based on Maxim Gorky’s novel.

The acting has a neo-realist flavor to it in the sense that a working class milieu is truthfully depicted, although most of the lead parts are played by professional actors. Diaz, an unknown, had theatre training; this turn in the title role of an epic is his first film role. In addition to Diaz and Pires, Cleo Pires as Lula’s first wife Lurdes and Sostenes Vidal as Ziza, the brother who is to the left of Lula, also excel. Cleo is the real life daughter of Gloria, a telenovela star who also acted in 1995’s O Quatrilho, an Oscar-nominated drama directed by Barreto.

Politically, Lula, Son of Brazil depicts its proletarian protagonist as an honest trade union militant who repeatedly asserts that he is not “a communist.” Lula was more or less a social democrat, and the successful Workers Party candidate for president in post-dictatorship Brazil ruled the country in that way. While he was part of the Bolivarian trend of left-leaning South American leaders portrayed in 2010’s great Oliver Stone documentary South of the Border, he is clearly not as radical as his counterparts in Cuba, Bolivia and Venezuela. However, after serving two terms in office he reportedly reduced poverty, left Brazil better off than he’d found it before becoming president, remained immensely popular, and handed the presidency off to a democratically elected woman and former guerrilla, Workers Party candidate Dilma Rousseff.

The movie’s final credits become propagandistic, with a hagiography of Lula consisting of titles telling boasting about his achievements and photos of him meeting with various world leaders. The transition from fiction to factual is jarring, and also strange, because the rest of the biopic has a far greater ring of truth. But this is a mere quibble; otherwise, Lula is a marvelous motion picture experience about a man and a movement that shook South America’s largest nation to its core. If you happen to love great movies, don’t miss Lula, Son of Brazil.

THEATER REVIEW: AWAKE

2012-01-24T14:29:00.000-08:00

Erica (Tacey Adams) and Paul (Joseph Culp) in Awake in a World That Encourages Sleep.

We are only sleeping

By Ed Rampell

Playwright and co-star Raymond J. Barry’s Awake in a World That Encourages Sleep is being advertised with the tagline: “Occupy this play!” However, although this one act, three-actor production takes place entirely in a park (not Zuccotti or the lawn at L.A.’s City Hall), Awake in a World That Encourages Sleep has little to do with Occupy Wall Street’s occupations per se, although it does reflect that mass movement’s anti-corporate sensibility.

Combining the Theatre of the Absurd with agitprop, Barry’s drama is a cross between Samuel Beckett’s Waiting For Godot and Clifford Odets’ Waiting For Lefty. (Odets, of course, also penned Awake and Sing! another proletarian theater classic that was originally presented by the fabled Group Theatre in1935 and was revived on Broadway in 2006 with Ben Gazzara.) Barry plays Edward, an economist similar to John Perkins, the whistlebowing consultant who wrote the expose Confessions of an Economic Hit Man, exposing imperialist intervention in the Third World through financial and covert means.

Edward was strolling in the park one day, in the merry, merry month of whenever, when he is taken by surprise by stumbling upon Erica (Tacey Adams). She has apparently called in “well” and is taking the day off from work so she can read a volume of Leo Tolstoy’s short stories on a bench in a public park on a sunny afternoon. Or is their rendezvous actually part of a premeditated scheme, rather than merely a random act? As it turns out Erica also happens to be the wife of Paul (Joseph Culp), a former business associate of Edward’s. Edward has woken up and abandoned the corporate/government cabal referred to as the “Group” (I trust this is not a reference to the Group Theatre). He woos Erica and clashes with Paul over corporate ethics (now there’s an oxymoron for you!) and Erica’s affections.

Barry’s dialogue is crisply written and expertly delivered, often rapid fire, by the trio of thesps with an absurdist tilt and lilt. As the naysayer, Edward in particular slings zingers about the business world he has become disaffected with and alienated from. He’s now an insomniac in a world of somnambulists. The nature of what may be Paul’s hidden relationship with his former colleague threatens to unhinge Paul, who is still very much a corporate shill and tool with a revealing back story. Meanwhile, the action in the park is intermittently interrupted by offstage explosions, due to an ongoing war not too far away as part of the realpolitik of the ruling powers-that-be.

Those bombs bursting in air may be heard by the actors onstage, but not by members of the audience, and I couldn’t help but think that it would have been more effective if the explosions had indeed been rendered audible for the audience. But this is a mere quibble, as the drama is excellently acted throughout and presents a cogent, if Kafka-esque, critique of corporate rule. All three actors are clad in business attire, and the bare stage is painted white, including a tree flanked by ivory benches.

Awake in a World That Encourages Sleep runs through Feb. 26 at the Electric Lodge, 1416 Electric Avenue, Venice, CA 90291. For ticket info see: www.brownpapertickets.com/event/210533.

TOP TEN: DON SIMPSON'S BEST FILMS OF 2011

2012-01-19T23:31:00.000-08:00

Oliver (Ewan MacGregor) in Beginners.

Blessed states

By Don Simpson

The Arbor -- With a unique merging of fact and fiction, The Arbor is able to reconstruct the pain and struggle within Andrea Dunbar’s work as well as reveal the dour consequences her life choices had on her family. Clio Barnard’s stylistic choice of having her actors confide in the camera (therefore the audience) is a purposeful cinematic devise to add more hyper to the hyper-reality and bring more self-consciousness into the mix.

Beginners -- Only in Hollywood will characters like Hal and Oliver both find perfect partners exactly when they need them the most. That is Beginners’ only flaw and it is one that I can easily forgive. Otherwise, writer-director Mike Mills’ (Thumbsucker) film is as perfect as a tearjerker, romantic drama can get in my book. Very few films handle family skeletons, the loss of loved ones, and the rediscovery of love (in both straight and queer relationships, no less) with such agility. Oh, and just be sure to keep lots of tissues close at hand, Beginners is guaranteed to conjure up some waterworks.

Better This World -- In constructing their narrative, Kelly Duane de la Vega and Katie Galloway must first re-create for the audience what happened prior to the commencement of their production, so they rely on archival footage and talking head interviews recollecting the events. De la Vega and Galloway allow everyone, including the FBI, to tell their version of the story and surprisingly enough, they all seem to be on the same page (or at least the same chapter), except for the actions of the FBI informant. The unfolding of the events is spine-tingling (at least for someone of my political persuasion). Better This World represents how conservative America’s post-9/11 War on Terror went terribly awry, ripping away the civil liberties of American citizens and instantly squashing any form of political dissent.

Film Socialisme -- For English-speaking audiences, Godard obliterates any resemblance of coherent/cohesive dialog (or narrative) by releasing Film Socialisme with what he refers to as “Navajo” English subtitles. By doing so, Godard deconstructs the primarily French dialog into an oblique code that isolates or concatenates specific nouns and verbs (presumably) from the spoken dialog. But without grammar or structure, the words remain just that, words. The spoken dialog becomes part of the film’s soundtrack and the subtitles present mere clues of what might be going on. Knowledge of multiple languages becomes power; the ability to effectively communicate across borders leads to peace, love and understanding. It is difficult to ignore the inherently Godardian “fuck you” to the Anglophone imperialists in the audience. It is as if Godard does not want non-Francophones to know the true meaning or purpose of Film Socialisme.

Martha Marcy May Marlene -- For me, the real payoff of Martha Marcy May Marlene can be found in the ending, which is rivaled only by Meek’s Cutoff in terms of sublime ambiguity. The comparisons between Martha Marcy May Marlene and Meek’s Cutoff do not end there. Both films toy with the audience’s preconceived notions of cinematic genres and traditional narrative tropes, while they also rely solely upon their infinite layers of subtext to communicate their significance. Most importantly, both films proselytize the unique power of the cinematic art form. These are stories that could never be properly conveyed via any other medium — that right there is precisely why Martha Marcy May Marlene and Meek’s Cutoff are two of my favorite films of 2011.

Meek’s Cutoff -- Kelly Reichardt’s film — penned by Jonathan Raymond (Reichardt’s co-writer on Old Joy and Wendy and Lucy) — is, at least in theory, a western but with most of the genre’s conventions flipped completely inside out. Cinematographer Chris Blauvelt’s grand panoramas of the striking Oregonian vista is photographed in a boxy 4:3 aspect ratio, which adds a unique sense of claustrophobia to the image. Reichardt and Blauvelt rely quite heavily on long and medium compositions, but the camera does occasionally cut to various characters’ facial expressions to convey meaning, intent or emotion.

Shame -- Shame is one of those rare modern films that I would love to construct a hearty critical analysis of, mainly because the perspectives and framing of every scene convey as much purpose as the characters themselves. But a discussion of this film at that level will require several more viewings and a significantly higher word count. (Heck, it might take me a few thousand words just to discuss the scene in which Sissy performs “Theme from New York, New York“.) As much as I admire the writing, direction and performances of Shame, I do not know how many repeat viewings I could endure. Shame is an emotionally exhausting film; it is certainly not a film that is intended to be enjoyed.

Tomboy -- With Tomboy, writer-director Céline Sciamma delves much deeper into the taboo (at least on this side of the Atlantic) theme of childhood sexuality that she discussed all-so-eloquently in her 2007 feature-length debut, Water Lilies. Laure is five years younger than Water Lilies’ Marie, Anne and Floriane; thus Laure is also significantly more innocent. The root of Laure’s deception is not about sexual attraction to girls — though she does kiss a girl — it is about wanting to play like a boy.

Weekend -- We observe Russell and Glen as they flounder about, attempting to negotiate the course of the first couple days of their relationship — just as a lot of heterosexual couples do. That is one of the other brilliant aspects of Weekend, the way the story becomes a universal one, transcending all notions of sexual preference and gender. Other than when Russell and Glen kiss each other and have sex, there is nothing gay about these characters, they transcend categorization. Even the film’s ending co-opts a classic trope from heterosexual cinema, cleverly pointing out that the gender of the characters bidding farewell to each other on the train station platform really does not matter; what matters is that the audience is adequately convinced that the two characters love each other and the impending division will tear their hearts apart.

Where Soldiers Come From -- Despite the obvious temptation to bombard the audience with additional footage of the war-torn soldiers and their families railing against U.S. economic, military, and foreign policies, Heather Courtney refrains from turning Where Soldiers Come From into a heavy-handed political diatribe; instead, the resulting film is a deeply humanistic tale of five young men yearning to earn some basic financial stability in their futures. This, however, does not mean that the audience will refrain from bringing politics into their viewing experience, because there are a lot of political issues at the heart of Where Soldiers Come From.

FILM REVIEW: MISS BALA

2012-01-18T15:59:00.000-08:00

Laura (Stephanie Sigman) in Miss Bala.

A girl in trouble can be a permanent thing

By Ed Rampell

Stylish cinematography, deft direction and edgy storylines characterize the New Mexican Cinema spearheaded by creative forces such as actors Gael Garcia Bernal and Diego Luna, who, appropriately, share producing credits for this wave’s latest release north of the border, Miss Bala, Mexico’s official Oscar entry.

Mexico’s drug wars – which have reportedly claimed up to 50,000 lives in the past few years -- are providing grist for movie mills, from this crime noir directed and co-written by Gerardo Naranja to Oliver Stone’s upcoming Savages. In Miss Bala Laura Guerreo (stunning Sonora-born Stephanie Sigman) is a typical 23-year-old senorita in Tijuana who has nothing to do with crime and decides to enter the Miss Baja beauty pageant. This leads to her unintentionally becoming ensnared in extremely violent gang warfare that pits the ironically named La Estrella (“The Star”) gangsters against the DEA, the Federales and more, with the hapless, helpless Laura caught in the crossfire.

During her ordeal, which includes bombings, trafficking, kidnapping and gunplay galore, the terrified Laura is often curiously passive. At times it seems as if this innocent bystander doesn’t act on opportunities to escape, take the money and run, resist rape, etc. Maybe Laura fears that resistance is futile and means certain death? Perhaps Laura and her inner paralysis symbolizes the law abiding Mexican masses who are caught up in this criminal tidal wave, overwhelmed and unsure as to what to do and how to react?

Throughout the trials and tribulations they visit upon her, rather amazingly, gang chief Lino Valdez (Noe Hernandez) and his fellow gangbangers protect the embattled Laura. They also override the rejection of her beauty contest application, paving the way for the lovely Laura to compete. Why? There’s a method to their madness, which in the interests of avoiding plot spoilers your mum’s-the-word reviewer won’t reveal here. However, suffice it to say that the title of the film, Miss Bala -- which translates into English as “Miss Bullet” -- seems to ironically comment on the Miss Baja beauty pageant, and perhaps on the state of beleaguered Mexico’s tourism industry. (Although I must say that I visited the Riviera Maya near Cancun last year and saw no signs of the drug wars in that part of the country.)

In addition to Sigman's bewildered, perplexed, put-upon performance and sensuous presence as a senorita in peril, what I enjoyed most about Miss Bala is its scintillating cinematography. Mátyás Erdély’s camera frequently moves, evoking what is the essence of motion pictures, moving pictures, movies: Movement at 24 frames per second. However, this director of photography’s camerawork is never frenetic, nor is Miss Bala’s violence mindlessly gratuitous, unlike the cinematography and violence in, say, The Adventures of Tintin. I suspect that Steven Spielberg completely pummeled all of the charm out of Herge’s comic strip, just as he vandalized James M. Barrie’s Peter Pan with another overblown, pointless production in 1991. For a fraction of Mr. Spielberg’s budget, Senor Naranja has created a far superior action flick minus 3D imagery, which captures a moment in time when much of a nation is at war with itself, fuelled by drugs and their buyers in El Norte.

Miss Bala is one of the best, most exciting crime pictures I’ve seen since last year’s Congo-set Viva Riva! Mexico’s cinema has become so hot that even Will Ferrell is getting into the act, starring in the forthcoming genre spoof Casa de mi Padre -- with, but of course, the protean Bernal and Luna. The Mexican cinema has come a long way since Wallace Beery starred as Pancho in the 1934 Hollywood-made, Mexico-shot Viva Villa! which recently played on a double bill at the New Beverly Cinema with the Paul Muni, Bette Davis 1939 classic Juarez, and were presented by Hispanic film historian Luis Reyes. Viva Mexico’s film revolution!

TOP ELEVEN: ED RAMPELL'S BEST FILMS OF 2011

2012-01-17T11:45:00.000-08:00

Sigmund Freud (Viggo Mortensen) in A Dangerous Method.

Exit stage lefty

By Ed Rampell

The criteria for my favorite films are progressive political and cultural content, plus artistic excellence in terms of using the uniquely cinematic attributes of the movie medium. Astute readers may observe that half of the motion pictures on my Top 10 list for 2011 were shot and/or set in France. And while it’s true that your erstwhile cinephile actually did return to France last August, and that I do indeed speak French, it would be a mistake to assume that I am a Francophile. In fact, I did lots of reporting on the nuclear free and independent Pacific movement that was highly critical of French colonialism in New Caledonia and French-occupied Polynesia. But that is a flashback to another life; so suffice it to say that the land of the Lumiere Brothers, Georges Melies and the New Wave remains a vital cinematic force and center, so -- in no particular order –my Top 10 films of 2011 are:

Hugo – And speaking of Georges Melies (Ben Kingsley), Martin Scorsese’s optically opulent, loving tribute (with an antiwar subtext) to that movie master of illusion in sumptuous 3D is a delightful tribute to a motion picture pioneer and the art form we are so besotted with: Cinema.

The Artist – French auteur Michel Hazanavicius’ film, set in Hollywood in the 1920s as the talkie emerged, is likewise an adoring ode to the silent screen that reminds us silence truly is golden.

The Iron Lady – Meryl Streep uncannily depicts Britain’s dictatorial Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, whom husband Denis (Jim Broadbent) nicknames “M.T.” (Get it? As in “empty.”)

The Conquest – Xavier Durringer’s biopic about reactionary pig Nicholas Sarkozy’s (Denis Podalydes) rise to the presidency of France, and his miserable relationship with wife Cecilia (and with just about everybody else), is a rightwing bookend to The Iron Lady about another conservative tyrant.

Coriolanus & The Flowers of War – Both Ralph Fiennes’ modern dress version of Shakespeare’s drama about a Roman general co-starring Vanessa Redgrave and Zhang Yimou’s epic about the rape of Nanking co-starring Christian Bale are both historically set antiwar films that tied for a space on my Top 10 list.

Black Power Mixtape 1967-1975 – This documentary about Civil Rights activists, nationalists and revolutionaries perfectly captures what one of its interview subjects, Stokely Carmichael, once said (and I paraphrase): “Molotov cocktails and ghetto riots – ahhh, that’s the stuff dreams are made of.” With Angela Davis, Bobby Seale, Louis Farrakhan, and other luminaries of the Black liberation struggle during the sizzling sixties and seventies.

Potiche – This 1970s-set French feminist farce and musical comedy stars the ever radiant Catherine Deneuve, whose factory owner husband (Fabrice Luchini) vies with the town’s Communist mayor (Gerard Depardieu) in the class struggle and for his wife’s affections. Deneuve delightfully turns the tables on these Frenchmen when she enters politics as a matriarchal candidate.

A Dangerous Method – The psychological ménage a trois of patient-turned-shrink Sabina Spielrein (poetically portrayed by Keira Kinightley), Carl Jung (Michael Fassbinder) and Sigmund Freud (Viggo Mortenson) is anything but comic as the founders of psychoanalysis clash. This historical drama is spellbinding, and poor Spielrein’s offscreen fate is absolutely heart rending.

Midnight in Paris – Woody Allen’s wonderfully witty time traveling comedy is a laugh a minute romp that takes a contemporary emotionally lost scriptwriter (a droll Owen Wilson) back to the Lost Generation of American and other expatriates who inhabited the City of Light in the 1920s. Full of insights about the creative process (not to mention human longings, in and out of bed), this is the Woodman’s funniest comedy in years, as well as reportedly Allen’s highest grossing film ever. And you haven’t lived until you see Kathy Bates as Gertrude Stein, the role she was born to play!

The Names of Love – I’ve saved the best for last, as this very sexy, very funny French farce is my favorite film of 2011, one of those movies that makes you feel glad to be alive. What can I say? – I’m in love. Sensuous Sara Forestier deservedly won the Best Actress César (the French counterpart to the Oscar) for her role as the Reichian dream girl incarnate, a lefty woman who (pardon my French) fucks for freedom. Viva la revolucion!

THEATER REVIEW: RED HOT PATRIOT

2012-01-16T17:24:00.000-08:00

Molly Ivins (Kathleen Turner) in Red Hot Patriot, The Kick-Ass Wit of Molly Ivins.

Bush-hells of fun

By Ed Rampell

Kathleen Turner can’t say that, can she? Oh, but the star of 1981’s Body Heat most certainly can – at least while she’s in character as the outspoken journalist Molly Ivins in Red Hot Patriot. The tall Texan, who was one of America’s leading literary lights of lefty letters, has tall boots to fill. But in what is essentially a one woman show Turner fully embodies Ivins, tossing off zesty zingers, one liners and cuss words that afflict the comfortable and comfort the afflicted with Ivins-esque aplomb.

The bioplay, lovingly written by Allison and Margaret Engel -- two sisters with reportorial backgrounds – covers Ivin's life, lost loves (thank you Vietnam War!), journalistic career, politics and illness in a production imbued with Ivins’ kick-sass atty-tude and humor, which always skewered the high and mighty on behalf of the lowly and powerless. Subtitled The Kick-Ass Wit of Molly Ivins, the action takes place in scenic designer John Arnone’s set depicting a newsroom from a bygone era that has seen better days. Projection designer Maya Ciarrocchi’s images enliven the subject matter, including visuals of Ivins herself at various points in her life and career.

In this pre-digital newsroom Turner’s co-stars are a decidedly old fashioned AP machine that periodically delivers Associated Press bulletins, breaking news about historic events Ivins covered or, imaginatively, from the hard drinking Ivins’ own personal life. Matthew Van Oss occasionally appears briefly onstage as a copyboy who hands the news flashes to Turner in a non-speaking part (Van Oss should have been cast in the silent film The Artist).

The work shirt-clad Turner who scintillated the screen as a sultry siren in 1980s hits such as the classic film noir Body Heat (a brilliant parable of the Reagan era’s slimy corruption and venality), Romancing the Stone and The War of the Roses, is stouter now, but she’s more or less within the Geneva Conventions’ in terms of Ivins’ own physical presence. Turner’s Texas twang, delivery and ironic inflections captures Ivin’s manner of speaking (which I was lucky to hear in person in 2000 at the so-called Shadow Convention, a sort of left-leaning counterpart to the Democratic Party’s National Convention that took place nearby in Downtown L.A.). Although she’s no longer a sexy ingénue sizzling the screen, as directed by David Esbjornson, Turner’s Ivins generates plenty of brain heat.

The story, as told by Turner, recounts Ivins’ stints as a reporter for Texan dailies and as a co-editor of the Texas Observer. The Lone Star State’s political hi jinks provided great journalistic grist for Ivin's mill, but more importantly, helped place her on the national stage, with her firsthand knowledge and insights into Texan politicians, from the similarly witty Gov. Ann Richards to the Bushes, who put the nasty into dynasty. It was Ivins who coined George W. Bush’s rather fitting nickname – “Shrub” – which became the title of the first of her two biographies about this pretender to the presidential throne. The second of Ivins' Bush bios was, appropriately, called Bushwhacked, and it’s fair to say that Bush Jr. became this populist’s bête noir.

While the play makes much of Ivins’ Elvis obit for The New York Times, Ivins' longtime collaboration with her Texas Observer colleague, Lou DuBose, who also co-authored the Bush bios with her, is never mentioned. Nor are the lefty publications Ivins was long associated with, notably The Nation and The Progressive. These curious oversights by the sisters Engel are odd omissions vis-à-vis the columnist’s oeuvre.

However, the Engels’ script is strongest when describing the personal side of Ivins which impelled her into the fray on behalf of underdogs everywhere. Her relations with both parents were conflicted, especially with her militaristic, domineering, conservative father, whom his daughter caustically called “the General” and frequently clashed with. The death of a lover in Indochina further poured fuel on the fire of Ivins’ ire. The play correctly puts its finger on what motivates writers such as Ivins: a sense of outrage. Happily, for we, the people, Ivins expressed that outrage against the rich and powerful while defending the least of these among us. By the way, written as it is (well, obviously) by professional writers, Ivin Red Hot Patriot has lots of witty literary insights into the creative process of scribbling and doodling, and into we ink stained wretches who ink out a living, dipping quills into bottles of ink or pecking on keyboards.

Ivin's mortality, as she comes to grips with a fatal disease, is also movingly depicted by the ever quipping Turner. Death, where is thy zinger? Although Turner acquits herself well throughout this one act one woman show, she, and the play itself, is best in the final moments as a spectral Ivins delivers one final rabblerousing riposte from beyond the grave to the common people she so loved and had such a profound belief in and respect for. Turner’s final battle cry as Ivins is reminiscent of Charlie Chaplin’s speech in his 1940 anti-fascist masterpiece, The Great Dictator. The audience at the Geffen applauded and gave Turner -- and her character -- a well-deserved standing ovation. Author! Author!

Red Hot Patriot, The Kick-Ass Wit of Molly Ivins runs through Jan. 12 at the Geffen Playhouse, 10886 Le Conte Ave., Westwood Village, CA 90024. For more information: 310/208-2028; www.GeffenPlayhouse.com.

FILM REVIEW: WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT KEVIN

2012-01-13T10:49:00.000-08:00

Eva (Tilda Swinton) in We Need to Talk About Kevin.

The damned do not cry

By Don Simpson

Adapted from Lionel Shriver’s 2003 novel We Need to Talk About Kevin, writer-director Lynne Ramsay’s (Morvern Callar, Ratcatcher) film is about a miserable, budding young sociopath and his oh-so-oblivious parents. Told from Eva’s (Tilda Swinton) perspective, the fluidly non-linear narrative We Need to Talk About Kevin intertwines past and present, memory and inner-most thoughts.

If we were to reconstruct the narrative in a linear fashion, We Need to Talk About Kevin would begin with Eva’s happy marriage to Franklin (John C. Reilly). But then the spawn of Satan arrives and they name him Kevin (Rock Duer). From the moment Kevin exits Eva’s womb, the baby seems to hate her with fiery fervor. As Kevin develops into a young boy (Jasper Newell), the hatred continues to boil; he will not communicate with his mother and refuses to be potty trained. As a teenager (Ezra Miller), Kevin evolves into a fully fleshed-out sociopath as we witness his dead-eyed gaze, his utter contempt for others, and his apparent lack of guilt. Eva and Franklin idly observe as the demon spawn hones his archery skills. We can sense that Eva senses that something is wrong with Kevin, but she never tries to get help; Franklin, on the other hand, is embarrassingly clueless of the monster being raised under his roof.

Everything in Ramsay’s film is overtly orchestrated for the sole purpose of showcasing just how unruly Kevin is. We see scene after scene of Kevin acting out and are left with no other assumptions than he will develop into an evil teenager. (The non-linear narrative structure solidifies Kevin’s fate by revealing relatively early on that Kevin is presently in prison.) I kept hoping that this barrage of in-your-face clues were mere red herrings -- that Kevin would not turn out so bad after all. But Ramsay approaches We Need to Talk About Kevin as a heavy-handed diatribe about the ramifications of oblivious parenting. The title says it all, Eva and Franklin need to talk about Kevin and get him some help, but they never do. We Need to Talk About Kevin is about an accident waiting to happen; when said accident occurs, all we can do is sit back, wag our index fingers and shout “I told you so!”

Some people should just never have children — Eva and Franklin are caricatures of well-intentioned people who are just that, people who never should have had children. But then that line is a little bit blurry because their second child, Celia (Ashley Gerasimovich), seems like a perfectly sweet kid. The presence of Celia seems to suggest that the fault is not that of the parents, but that Kevin was born bad. Regardless, Eva and Franklin are totally responsible for not dealing with Kevin’s psychosis before he goes postal.

To date, there has not been a Tilda Swinton performance that has not sent near-crippling shivers down my spine.If any female actor of her generation can personify cold and creepy, it is her — and Swinton’s rapturous performance as Eva is no different. It might have been interesting to have someone in the role of Eva acting against their “type,” but I am certain that no one could have replicated Swinton’s performance. Also, all three Kevin’s are perfectly cast. Duer, Newell and Miller all look and act remarkably similar, lending the role of Kevin an uncanny sense of continuity over this 16-year timeline. (Another note of obvious casting decisions: Miller’s take on Kevin is remarkably similar to his dark and brooding portrayal of Elliot in Another Happy Day.)

FILM REVIEW: ROADIE

2012-01-06T14:45:00.000-08:00

Roadie (Ron Eldard) in Roadie.

White lined fervor

By Don Simpson

Jimmy Testagross (Ron Eldard) — the eponymous protagonist of Michael Cuesta’s Roadie — is a 40-something guy from Queens with an unfortunate last name (that earned him the childhood nickname of “Jimmy Testicles”) who has tirelessly schlepped Blue Öyster Cult’s gear for 26 years, a thankless career if ever there was one. While on the subject of thankless, BOC is leaving for a tour of South America soon, and Jimmy is getting the runaround from the band’s manager. It seems the washed-up band is leaving their washed-up roadie behind.

After dedicating over half of his life to BOC, Jimmy has no friends to speak of and nowhere to go. As Jimmy drifts hopelessly towards destitute poverty, he is drawn closer and closer to his childhood home. But Queens is not a happy place for Jimmy; he “escaped” it for good reason. His high school buddies — the same Neanderthal numskulls such as Bobby (Bobby Canavale) who christened him “Jimmy Testicles” — who stayed behind seem uneducated, adventureless and ambitionless to Jimmy. Bobby is exactly who Jimmy has rebelled against; guys like him are the exact reason he abandoned Queens many years ago. What makes matters worse is that Jimmy’s high school sweetheart, Nikki (Jill Hennessy), married Bobby. How could she settle for someone like him?

As is often the case for those of us who purposefully moved away from his or her childhood neighborhoods and dread any return visits, Jimmy’s first means of escape from this harsh reality is alcohol — and lots of it. Reconnecting with Nikki and Bobby further escalates Jimmy’s self-destructive behavior by adding cocaine to his dangerous recipe of escapism.

Roadie accurately represents the conflict between those who have “escaped” their childhood homes and those who chose to stay behind. Cuesta’s dedication to the gritty authenticity of his subject is quite impressive and his casting of Eldard as Jimmy turns out to be divinely inspired.

FILM REVIEW: PARIAH

2011-12-30T14:21:00.000-08:00

Alike (Adepero Oduye) in Pariah.

Invisible lesbian

By Don Simpson

Alike (Adepero Oduye) is very shy and totally unsure of herself. At 17-years of age, Alike attempts to define herself by her tomboy wardrobe, as if wearing a placard that boldly states “Kiss me, I’m a lesbian”; because that is really all she wants, a kiss. Hanging around her bull-dyke best friend, Laura (Pernell Walker), further accentuates her boyish traits. Of course Alike’s overprotective Christian mother (Kim Wayans) does not like that. She wants Alike to wear clothes that flaunt her girlish figure; but that seems to only make Alike rebel more. Luckily, Alike’s father (Charles Parnell) is oblivious enough to his surroundings that she is able to maintain a somewhat “normal” relationship with him while her meddling little sister (Sahra Mellesse) is the only family member who is fully cognizant and accepting of Alike’s sexual orientation.

As much as I like Pariah, and would never want to discount its message, it is very difficult for me to overlook some of the very same issues that I had with Lee Daniels’ Precious. For instance, the images, set design and performances seem more like Hollywood representations of Alike’s world; a hyper-real manifestation of reality. Drama and emotion are tweaked off the charts like some nauseatingly sappy poetry or excruciatingly trite singer-songwriter lyrics. The dialogue seems oh so perfectly manicured, and certain scenes seem all too purposeful. Two scenarios in particular seem especially unreal to me: when an AP English teacher urges Alike to “go deeper” with her soul-baring poetry and when Laura passes her GED only to have her mother slam a door in her face when she tries to tell her the good news. (Oh, and do not even get me started on the conclusion…) The apparent falsities constantly distract me from the emotional core of this heartbreaking tale — which is a crying shame because several of the performances are quite amazing and I really do love Pariah‘s overall message. The story would have really benefited from a more realistic representation and a wee bit more directorial restraint.

Yet I want to conclude this on an uplifting note, because Pariah really is quite effective in portraying how a teenager’s closeted queer lifestyle can lead to friction at home, leaving a crumbling family unit in its wake. This is by no means Alike’s fault; her parents are irritatingly irrational and clueless towards her homosexuality. The overall situation seems brutally honest, as if it is torn directly from the pages of Rees’ personal experience.

FILM REVIEW: TINKER TAILOR SOLDIER SPY

2011-12-13T14:50:00.000-08:00

George Smiley (Gary Oldman) in Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy.

Modestly Blase

By Don Simpson

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is an anti-spy movie. It is not that the film has anything against spies, but it dutifully works in opposition to the traditional tropes of the genre. Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is not about suspense, action or thrills; it is about becoming fully immersed in the carefully orchestrated production design of 1970s London. Just as Let the Right One In functions as a character and period study rather than a horror film, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy cares more about the minutia of aesthetics than espionage.

Director Tomas Alfredson (Let the Right One In) presents us with a cast of older men with thinning hair and frumpy frames then shoves them into a series of claustrophobic spaces. It is fitting that Alfredson once directed a film titled Four Shades of Brown, because that sufficiently describes the blase color palate of the smoke-filled interior design of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy while the polluted haze of the London streets is saturated by a drab rainbow of grays. The soft focus of Hoyte Van Hoytema's grainy 35mm cinematography lends the footage a finely aged quality, as if the stock has been shelved in some basement vaults for 30-odd years. Besides Alfredson's sublime fetish for kitschy set design -- especially 1970s technology -- Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy may go down in film history as the most unglamorous spy film ever produced.

The plot of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is fairly simple except for occasional flashbacks that are so seamlessly integrated within the narrative structure that it is sometimes becomes difficult to discern the past from the present. Luckily, the different eyeglasses of the film's lead character -- George Smiley (Gary Oldman) -- communicate to us where on the narrative timeline each scene falls. George has been forced into retirement by the MI6, but has been working off the books for their leader -- Control (John Hurt) -- in a clandestine effort to unearth the mole who has been leaking British intelligence to the Soviets. The likely suspects are George's former peers who function collectively as "The Circus" in the top tier of the MI6: Bill (Colin Firth), Percy (Toby Jones), Roy (Ciarán Hinds) and Toby (David Dencik). One would expect there to be an element of mystery and intrigue, but Alfredson almost immediately begins to clue us in to the identity of the mole(s) but leaves poor old George frustrated and exhausted as he sleeplessly attempts to wrap his head around the mystery.

Alfredson goes to great lengths to comment on the man's world of the British intelligence in the 1970s, populating the mise-en-scène with masculine images and colors. Other than occasional shots of a typing pool, women rarely appear onscreen; nonetheless, Alfredson finds one opportunity to cleverly sneak in a background shot of women's lib graffiti, thus implying that change may be on the way.

There are three reasons to watch Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy: the top notch production design (Maria Djurkovic); Gary Oldman's weary, detached and nearly silent portrayal of George; and Alfredson's masterfully meticulous and restrained direction. (And Alberto Iglesias's score is certainly not chopped liver either.) Unfortunately, I am not sure if Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy's meandering plot will be enticing enough to keep audiences in their seats. Let's just say that if you are looking for something along the same line as the Bourne franchise, you should go elsewhere.

FILM REVIEW: NEW YEAR'S EVE

2011-12-12T14:57:00.000-08:00

A scene from New Year's Eve.

Should all films be so rotten

By Don Simpson

Valentine’s Day is a cruel and bitter reminder that film critics do not wield much influence — at least in certain realms of cinema — because even though Valentine’s Day is scoring a lowly 18% on Rotten Tomatoes it went on to gross $214,976,776 and New Line Cinema deemed it worthy of a sequel (an extremely loose concept of a sequel at that). What does this say about film criticism and their relationship to film audiences? Not much. People were going to see trash like Valentine’s Day no matter what critics said about it, just as people are also going to see New Year’s Eve regardless of my review.

Fans of Valentine’s Day — whomever those poor suckers are — will probably scream that a highfalutin critic such as myself is inherently biased against films like New Year’s Eve; and, admittedly, I did enter the screening of New Year’s Eve assured that I would hate it. Considering my excruciatingly low opinion of Valentine’s Day, I figured that the odds were somewhat in favor of New Year’s Eve being a little bit better… But… Heavens to Murgatroyd! It turns out that New Year’s Eve is a mindless clusterfuck of ridiculousness!

Thanks to the relentless barrage of characters (most with fleeting roles that would normally be described as cameos) and no narrative to speak of (people are in love, people are dying, people are having babies, the ball at Times Square is stuck, blah blah blah…), writing a brief synopsis of New Year’s Eve is impossible. As with Valentine’s Day, New Year’s Eve relies so much on Hollywood stereotypes and tropes that anyone can flawlessly determine how each character’s storyline will end within minutes of their introduction. New Year’s Eve serves two purposes: to showcase a menagerie of Hollywood stars as if mere mannequins on a conveyor belt and to provide a few forced opportunities for Jon Bon Jovi to sing a few songs on screen.

It is quite fitting that Hollywood still churns out thoughtless, assembly line holiday films like Valentine’s Day and New Year’s Eve, since it is Hollywood that created the myths behind these holidays in the first place. The situations and dialogue (more like mindless dribble) found within Valentine’s Day and New Year’s Eve are by no means realistic — trust me, this stuff only happens in the movies. I am not a trained psychiatrist, but I suspect that the reason so many people get depressed during holidays like Valentine’s Day and New Year’s Eve is because they cannot live up to the unrealistic expectations set by Hollywood. I will leave you with one question: Why do people watch these films if, in the end, these films are just going to make them feel like shit?

FILM REVIEW: YOUNG ADULT

2011-12-12T11:12:00.000-08:00

Mavis Gary (Charlize Theron) in Young Adult.

Better than Bachmann

By Don Simpson

Meet Mavis Gary (Charlize Theron), a horrible person whose life is falling apart. First and foremost, her career as a ghost writer for a young adult serial has come to an abrupt end. Oh, and she is also divorced. So, in order to restart her seemingly failed life, Mavis leaves Minneapolis to visit Mercury, the hick suburban hellhole of a town where she grew up. Essentially, Mavis wants to relive her teenage years when she presumably listened to Teenage Fanclub’s “The Concept” on repeat, was the most popular girl in high school, and dated Buddy Slade (Patrick Wilson). Sure, Buddy is happily married — he recently had a baby with his wife, Beth (Elizabeth Reaser) — but that does not stop Mavis from trying to win Buddy back. (Oh, Mavis! Will you never learn that men are not prizes to be competed for and won?)

Mavis’ entire trip to Mercury is spent in an alcohol-fueled stupor. Out of lonely desperation, Mavis befriends Matt (Patton Oswalt) the “hate crime kid” from high school. Matt seems to have no problems with helping Mavis remain drunk ad nauseum, because a frumpy comic geek like him is powerless when faced with Mavis’ natural beauty. Besides, we can only assume that Matt is holding out hope that Mavis will become drunk enough for a good old-fashioned sympathy fuck.

Um… Yeah… Okay… Well, I have got to say, Young Adult truly left me speechless. That is not true, actually, because I am left with a hell of a lot of questions. What the fuck did I just watch? Why did I just watch it? Why would Diablo Cody write this script? Why would Jason Reitman direct it? Why would Theron take this role? And can you please repeat your answer to why I just watched it? Well, no matter what your answer is, can I please have those 94 minutes of my life back?

I am not sure if Cody and Reitman want the audience to hate Mavis, feel sorry for her, laugh at her, or like her — all I know is that I felt absolutely nothing. Was I really supposed to feel something for this ex-prom queen who is in the midst of a cartoonish absurd existential crisis? Mavis’ beauty, bitchiness and pathetic attitude all seem to just cancel each other out. In the end, Mavis is just cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, pure and simple; in other words, she is like a shallowly written cartoon buffoon. Immediately after the two or three times that I laughed during Young Adult, I immediately thought about what I had just laughed at and felt really disgusted with myself. Young Adult left me feeling really, really dirty.

Additionally, since Young Adult is written from Mavis’ perspective that presumably gives the film an excuse to be brutally condescending and patronizing towards the populace of the quaint Minnesota town. Everyone in Mercury is presumed to be a simple-minded hick with no goals or aspirations; you know, because all of the smart and ambitious people relocated to the Mini-Apple (Minneapolis). Young Adult is essentially just a vehicle for Cody to exercise her utter disdain for the strip mall culture of middle America. Trust me, I do not like returning to the strip malls and chain restaurants of the suburban town where I grew up either. I moved away for a good reason, because I did not belong there. It is not the population of my hometown’s fault that I have very little in common with them, but in the case of Young Adult, it seems as though Cody is blaming everything (especially Mavis’ penchant for booze) on the people of Mercury and it is this holier-than-thou tone that will keep me from watching Young Adult ever again.

FILM REVIEW: MY PIECE OF THE PIE

2011-12-12T10:10:00.000-08:00

France (Karin Viard) in My Piece of the Pie.

Sliced

By Don Simpson

Writer-director Cédric Klapisch's My Piece of the Pie (Ma part du gateau) begins in Dunkirk with a birthday cake yet amidst the celebration, France (Karin Viard) attempts suicide. The quite purposefully named France is a single mother of three who is suffering from depression after the unexpected closure of the factory she had worked at for two decades.

Meanwhile in London, we learn that an evil power broker named Steve (Gilles Lellouche) recently closed a deal that prompted the shuttering of France’s employer. As a bonus, Steve accepts a job transfer that delivers him to Paris.

Meanwhile in Dunkirk, France — who is still recovering from her suicide attempt — cannot find another job; that is until she abandons her fellow factory workers and enters a housekeeper training program in Paris. The training program is designed for immigrants, so France must pretend that she is a foreigner so the other students do not get suspicious of national favoritism. (This could easily be interpreted as an anti-immigrant stance on behalf of Klapisch, as he “proves” to us that French Nationals actually want and deserve the lower class jobs that immigrants are stealing.)

Fate then rears its ugly hand and France is hired as Steve’s housekeeper. France — our working class heroine — is blinded by her income, especially as her salary multiplies upon becoming the nanny for Steve’s son (Lunis Sakji). France quickly learns that the millionaire lifestyle, however subservient her role may be, is not all that bad. Steve’s life, on the other hand, is devoted to the endless pursuit of profit at the expense of less privileged people, as My Piece of the Pie unspools into a cock-eyed message about how seemingly harmless business decisions have broader consequences than anyone could ever imagine. (Themes of financial accountability in this dog-eat-dog capitalist world come up again and again and again.)

And though she constantly ridicules Steve for not spending enough quality time with his son, France has all but abandoned her daughters in Dunkirk at the home of her sister (Audrey Lamy) in favor of spending more time with Steve’s son and thus making a lot more money. Nonetheless, we are supposed to believe that France is a decent, hard working woman who just so happens to have hit a lucky-yet-reckless streak. When France eventually sacrifices herself for her comrades at the factory back in Dunkirk, it is too little too late.

FILM REVIEW: CRAZY WISDOM

2011-12-01T18:00:00.000-08:00

Chögyam Trungpa Rinpochein Crazy Wisdom: The Life & Times of Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche.

In the material world

By Don Simpson

Crazy Wisdom: The Life & Times of Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche contemplates the teachings of Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche, a pivotal figure in the dissemination of Tibetan Buddhism to Western society. Trungpa was a Buddhist meditation master and holder of both the Kagyu and Nyingma lineages, the eleventh Trungpa tülku, a tertön, and supreme abbot of the Surmang monasteries. He was also an adherent of the ri-mé ecumenical movement within Tibetan Buddhism, which aspired to bring together the teachings of different Buddhist lineages, free of sectarian rivalry.

Trungpa’s journey to the West began during the 1959 Tibetan uprising against the Chinese communists when he escaped Tibet with his own party of monks across the Himalayas into India. In 1963 Trungpa received a scholarship to study Comparative Religion at Oxford University. In 1967 Trungpa and Akong Rinpoche were invited by the Johnstone House Trust in Scotland to take over a meditation center, from which they cultivated Samye Ling, the first Tibetan Buddhist monastery in the West. (David Bowie was one of Trungpa’s meditation pupils at Samye Ling.) While in Scotland, Trungpa married a wealthy 16-year old girl, was paralyzed after crashing his car into a joke shop and chose to give up his monastic vows in favor of working as a lay teacher.

Trungpa relocated to the United States in 1970 and dove headfirst into the vibrant and youthful counterculture. He established Tail of the Tiger, a Buddhist meditation and study center in Vermont (now known as Karmê Chöling) and Karma Dzong, a Buddhist community in Boulder, Colorado. In 1974, Trungpa founded the Naropa Institute — which later became Naropa University (the first accredited Buddhist university in North America) — in Boulder. He hired infamous Beats such as Allen Ginsberg, William Burroughs and Diane di Prima to teach at Naropa University.

Despite his success in delivering Tibetan Buddhism to the Western world — establishing more than 100 meditation centers — Trungpa is best remembered for his non-traditional behavior. He was a purported alcoholic (there are also some allegations of an expensive cocaine habit), smoked cigarettes and had sex with his female students.

Twenty years after Trungpa’s death, Johanna Demetrakas’s Crazy Wisdom seems to approach his life with kid gloves. Yes, Demetrakas’s access and use of exclusive archival material is impressive, but the documentary’s talking heads are comprised mostly of former disciples of Trungpa, many of whom are culled straight from Trungpa’s inner circle. They seem to lack the objectivity needed to discuss Trungpa without bias. In fact, their statements seem eerily cultish. The talking heads write off Trungpa’s alcoholism as his own unique way of testing the limits of “crazy wisdom” — a Buddhist concept suggesting that acts of foolishness and excess can lead to deeper meaning in the right context; and his promiscuity is interpreted as an exercise in corporeal agitation and a method of cultivating “true” love unbridled by extramarital temptation. Some of the interviewees willingly became Trungpa’s faux-British house servants in Boulder — they dressed as British servants and were taught by Trungpa to speak only in Queen’s English — and do not seem to have any reservations about having done so.

FILM REVIEW: THE MUPPETS

2011-11-28T17:51:00.000-08:00

Animal (voice by Eric Jacobson) in The Muppets.

Are we men or are we puppets?

By Don Simpson

Jason Segel co-writes and stars in a feature film that never even tries to attempt to conceal its purpose: to make the Muppets relevant again. Heck, with its uncanny knack for self-referential humor, The Muppets does not hide anything from its audience. The fourth wall is reduced to a pile of rubble as we are constantly reminded by the film’s characters that we are indeed watching a film -- as if the walking and talking puppets are not enough of a clue.

Gary (Segel) and Mary (Amy Adams) have been dating — celibately, we can only assume since this is a Disney film — for nearly ten years. They live — separately, we can only assume since this is a Disney film — in Smalltown, U.S.A. Gary resides with his muppety brother, Walter (voice by Peter Linz), who senses a unique kinship with the Muppets and is their number one fan.

The threesome embark upon a bus trip to Los Angeles. Their first stop, The Muppet Studios. After sneaking away from a lackluster tour, Walter overhears an evil oil tycoon (Chris Cooper) discussing a dastardly plan with his muppety henchmen — Uncle Deadly (voice by Matt Vogel) and Bobo (voice by Bill Barretta) — to turn the Muppets’ property into an oil field (maniacal laugh, maniacal laugh, maniacal laugh).

But there is hope for the Muppets. They just need to race $10 million dollars. Walter can only think of one logical solution: for the Muppets to reunite and put on a show (of course!). The threesome proceed to travel the world by map (literally) with Kermit the Frog (voice by Steve Whitmire) in a car driven by 80′s Robot (voice by Matt Vogel), picking up a menagerie of Muppets along the way. Oh, and to appease the CDE televsion executive (Rashida Jones) who will be airing their show, the Muppets must find a celebrity host.

Together again, the Muppets — with the assistance of Walter, Gary and Mary — work together as a team to get their old theater back into working order. Mary begins to feel neglected and pouts over having her dreamy romantic vacation hijacked by Walter and the Muppets. Gary is therefore thrust into an existential quagmire, forced to choose between being a man or a Muppet — as expressed in the best song of the film, “Am I a man or a Muppet?”

Yes, for all intents and purposes, The Muppets is a musical. What else would you expect? In addition to dusting off some old classics (“Rainbow Connection”) and adding some new material (written by Bret McKenzie of The Flight of the Conchords), pop songs such as Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and Cee-Lo Green’s “Fuck You” get cleverly Muppetized.

Debuting on the silver screen in 1979 with The Muppets Movie, Jim Henson’s fuzzy little franchise produced six features in the span of 20 years, concluding (or so it seemed) with Muppets from Space in 1999. Frank Oz publicly lampooned the script for The Muppets — the first theatrically-released Muppet film not to include Oz or Jerry Nelson as Muppeteers — and I can kind of see why. Segel and Nicholas Stoller opt to spend far too much time focusing on Mary and Gary in a shoddy attempt at spoofing the rated-G rom-com sub-genre (if such a sub-genre even exists). Mary and Gary’s white bread dialog lacks the luster of the writing for the Muppet characters (and 80's Robot). That is not to say that Segel and Adams do not give commendable performances, specifically in their musical scenes. In fact, the overall strength of The Muppets can be found in the musical scenes — which exceed the production quality of any other Muppets movie to date. I will even go out on the limb and say that the songwriting, choreography, set design and cinematography of the musical sequences are all pitch-perfect.

With The Muppets, we get exactly what us long-time fans have come to expect from the Muppets: fun songs and choreography, great cameos, corny jokes, and strong moral lessons. Unexpectedly, we also get some brilliantly absurd comedy which seems to be handcrafted for the stoner demographic. However, we could do without the slow and tedious rom-com scenes without any Muppets in sight and Fozzie Bear’s (voice by Eric Jacobson) fart jokes.

FILM REVIEW: HUGO

2011-11-28T15:38:00.000-08:00

Hugo Cabret (Asa Butterfield) in Hugo.

Train in vein

By Don Simpson

Hugo, director Martin Scorsese’s virginal foray into 3D cinema, begins with one fantastic flaunting of the third dimension, utilizing a long tracking shot that squeezes through the narrow tunnels and crowded platforms of a 1930s Parisian train station. (Brian Selznick’s source novel The Invention of Hugo Cabret takes place in 1931 whereas Scorsese’s film is not dated.) Unfortunately, this is a cinematic sequence that could only possibly take place in the mostly artificial realm of CGI, and to my discerning eye it appears unbelievably fake. In theory, it is a worthwhile attempt as Scorsese proves that he truly understands how scenes need to be framed in order to take full advantage of the 3D medium. If only he could have confined the entirety of Hugo to crowded confines, and kept the scenes somewhat grounded in the reality of actual locations rather than a CGI stage.

For the most part, I was pretty annoyed and frustrated by the 3D lensing. Not only does the technology render the images darker and softer than 2D images, but it also makes everything appear so damn artificial (during certain scenes Hugo actually looks eerily similar to The Polar Express, which is not a compliment). ).

Now, on with the story… Is it just me, or does almost every children’s fantasy/adventure film feature orphan protagonists? The titular Hugo Cabret (Asa Butterfield) is no exception. The prepubescent Hugo is left to clandestinely tend to a complicated system of clocks at the aforementioned Parisian train station after his father (Jude Law) dies and his uncle (Ray Winstone) disappears. An ever-vigilant station inspector (Sacha Baron Cohen) has made it his life’s mission to roundup all of the orphans he can find and ship them to the orphanage; so Oliver, I mean Hugo, must remain one step ahead of him at all times.

In a feeble attempt to reconnect with his father, Hugo attempts to rebuild an automaton with spare toy and clock parts. Unfortunately, a nasty old curmudgeon (Ben Kingsley) who tends a toy shop in the station snatches Hugo’s notebook which contains his father’s notes on how to fix the automaton. Hugo desperately enlists the assistance of Isabelle (Chloe Grace Moretz), a precocious young bookworm with bright eyes and a glowing smile — and she is the goddaughter of the old man — to win his notebook back.

The conniving young duo are quickly distracted from their original mission as Hugo takes Isabelle to see her first film — Harold Lloyd’s Safety Last — and Isabelle brings Hugo to a library for his first time. Their two adventuresome interests fatefully collide when they come across a book entitled The Invention of Dreams: The Story of the First Movies Ever Made, and this book provides them with clues regarding the true identity of Georges Méliès. (This is around where Hugo suddenly makes a sharp left turn from a kids’ adventure story to a pseudo-bio-pic about Méliès.) Isabelle and Hugo join forces with the book’s author, René Tabard (Michael Stuhlbarg), to bring Méliès out from the shadows.

Unless you are a connoisseur of early silent films, you are probably wondering who the heck this Méliès character is… Well, in short, Méliès was the first to recognize the connection between the cinema and dreams. This is the man who is often credited with originating the science fiction, fantasy and horror genres of cinema. Méliès came from a family of shoemakers, but he sold his share of the shoe factory to begin a career as a magician. The invention of the movies in France by the Lumière brothers prompted Méliès to build his own film camera out of parts from an automaton. He directed 531 films between 1896 and 1914, ranging in length from one to 40 minutes. What Méliès films lacked in plot, they made up for in the cinematic magic of groundbreaking special effects (not unlike a lot of Hollywood blockbusters today, and not unlike Hugo).

Contrary to what Hugo will have us believe, Méliès was never presumed dead during World War I; he stopped making films in 1913 after being forced into bankruptcy by much larger French and American studios (Méliès’ production company was bought out of receivership by Pathé Frères). The celluloid of his films did not become the heels of women’s shoes, but the French Army did seize most of Méliès’ film stock to be melted down into boot heels during World War I. However, there are some truths about Méliès in Hugo such as he did become a toy salesman at a Parisian train station and did collect automata.

I certainly appreciate Scorsese’s hero worship of Méliès and Hugo may actually have a better chance of turning audiences on to silent films than The Artist. But is this the film everyone is expecting Hugo to be? Hugo is being marketed as a children’s adventure story, not a lesson on film history and a diatribe about the importance of film preservation. Even Scorsese the magician leads us to believe that Hugo is the former, until he unveils the latter, thus pulling a Méliès-esque trick by making so many seemingly important threads of the first half of the narrative disappear before our very eyes. Poof!

I was also very confused by Scorsese’s decision to have all of the French characters speak in British accents. I guess the language and dialect of Hugo is just another directorial magic trick.

FILM REVIEW: INCENDIARY

2011-11-17T17:53:00.000-08:00

Barry Schenk in Incendiary: The Willingham Case.

Texas is burning

By John Esther

As Rick Perry carries on his futile run for the Republican Party 2012 presidential nomination, a documentary about just some of his misconduct as the current and longest Governor of Texas hits a few select theaters.

Co-directed and produced by Steve Mims and Joe Bailey Jr., Incendiary: The Willingham Case chronicles how a brutish -- but seemingly innocent of infanticide -- man named Cameron Todd Willingham was convicted and executed for the murder of his three children.

In December of 1991 Willingham was home with his three children when a fire started in his house. While he was able to escape, his three children were not. When two fire investigators arrived they practiced their "art" by immediately suspecting arson, ruling out any other theory. In the process they destroyed what could have been evidence to the contrary. Soon after Willingham was arrested and charged with three counts of murder in the first degree.

Incompetently represented by a defender who considered Willingham a sociopath, David Martin (who comes off here as the scummiest of scum), Willingham was found guilty based on bunk science and prison snitch (who later recanted), sentenced and, after spending 23 hours a day for 12 years in solitary confinement, executed. Willingham turned down a guilty plea in exchange for a life sentence.

It was an irresponsible (to put it mildly) rush to the switch and some people would not let it go, including some of the greatest fire experts in the country plus Barry Scheck and The Innocence Project. As the pressure mounted against Perry and his old boys, something had to be done and it was not going to be made in the name of justice.

While a state execution of an innocent man is hardly new – nationwide state governments have executed hundreds of innocent men and women since the early 1900s – what resonates for this documentary is the issue of science and how, sometimes, it gets in the way of quick justice and mean politics.

As sober as a lab report, the excellent documentary metes out its findings with calm precision. Rather than make a particular point, the co-directors let the participants establish and prove his and her findings as well as some grand “common sense” stupidity. The results go beyond the tragic, terrifying death of three children under the age of three and their father 12 years later. They strike hard into the willful and deliberate ignorance of far too many Americans.

FILM REVIEW: THE DESCENDANTS

2011-11-15T14:45:00.000-08:00

Matt King (George Clooney) in The Descendants.

Sharing his Payne

By Don Simpson

Chinos and Hawaiian shirts are normal every day attire for Honolulu lawyer, Matt King (George Clooney). Unfortunately, Matt’s life is not nearly as relaxed as his fashion sense. His wife, Elizabeth (Patti Hastie), is in a coma after a serious boating accident while Matt’s daughters, 17-year-old Alexandra (Shailene Woodley) and 10-year-old Scotty (Amara Miller), are both suffering through rebellious periods of their lives.

After prioritizing his career over his family for the last decade, Matt decides that it is prime time to buckle up and become a better husband and father. But… How? He starts by forging an alliance of sorts with Alexandra — who has been suddenly catapulted into the role of substitute mother for Scottie — which requires Matt to accept her mere-caricature-of-a-stoner-[boy]friend, Sid (Nick Krause) as more than the dumber-than-a-rock idiot he seems to be. It is a tough pill for Matt to swallow but, against all odds, he pulls it off without beating the living shit out of him.

It is not without purpose that Matt’s change of heart towards his family occurs on the eve of his decision on what to do with his family’s 25,000 acres of virgin land on the island of Kauai. Matt and his family might be a-holes, I mean “haoles” (white Hawaiians), but they are also the direct descendants of the House of Kamehameha. Matt and his family have been collecting pitches from several developers; no matter which one Matt — the sole executor of the estate — chooses, the entire family will instantaneously become unfathomably rich.

It is far too predictable what Matt finally chooses to do with the land — though would we really desire any other possible ending? Writer-director Alexander Payne opts to give the audience exactly what they want, opting to turn The Descendants into pure, unfiltered Oscar fodder. Let’s just say that I can already guarantee that my mom will love The Descendants, and not just because she thinks George Clooney is one dreamy motherfucker (my words, not her’s — my mom is a good Catholic woman, while I am obviously not a good Catholic or a woman…though I do find Clooney to be quite dreamy). Clooney’s severely understated performance as a severely undemonstrative character, who is incredibly bland and undeniably average, is at the absolute heart of The Descendants’s appeal. As Payne did with Jack Nicholson (About Schmidt), Paul Giamatti (Sideways) and Thomas Haden Church (Sideways), he all but castrates Clooney to restrain his performance, leaving him as a mere shell of his formerly entertaining self.

AFI 2011: PINA

2011-11-09T22:24:00.000-08:00

Ditta Miranda Jasifi in Pina.

Moving beyond death

By Ed Rampell

German director Wim Wenders’ Pina is full of filmic flights of whimsy. Wenders, of course, has directed highly regarded features, such as Paris, Texas, but he has also helmed the nonfiction Cuban concert pic, The Buena Vista Social Club. At Pina’s first AFI Film Festival screening Wenders told the audience that it took him a long time to make this documentary because “I didn’t know how to do justice to Pina” Bausch, the choreographer and guru of the Tanztheater Wuppertal.

After grappling with this aesthetic dilemma for 20 years, the return to prominence of the 3D process solved Wenders’ creative conundrum because he was now able to render the plasticity of dance. But just as he was about to commence making the doc Bausch suddenly died, leaving Wenders in the lurch, again. However, her dancers urged him to “make the film for Pina,” and after a few years he did shoot the film, which is a testament to her remarkable talent and personality.

The result is a work that alternates between visual splendor and repetitiousness, as the Tanztheater Wuppertal dancers reflect on their fallen instructor and perform a variety of modern dances set to classical, jazz and other music. Many of the routines are a treat to behold, such as the opening rendition of much of Igor Stravinsky’s jarring The Rite of Spring. Some of the dances are full of wit and are sort of choreographed physical comedy a la Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton or Jacques Tati. Others have monotonous movements and are boring to sit through as the Pina-heads perform the same motions over and over again.

Wenders makes great use of Wuppertal, located in North Rhine-Westphalia, Germany, east of Düsseldorf, where Pina’s Tanztheater is located. There are great shots of and in a moving overhead monorail that looks like it came straight out of Fritz Lang’s classic sci fi silent film, Metropolis, that expertly utilize the 3D technique. A hallmark of 3D technology is that objects are tossed straight at the camera -- such as flaming spears in the 1950s potboiler, Drums of Tahiti -- to jar and remind auds that they are watching three dimensional imagery. Wenders attains this effect with leaves scattered by a leaf blower, splashing water, billowing curtains and sometimes with dancers who seem to be defying gravity, but he hasn’t completely mastered this complex medium yet.

The performers are multi-culti and multi-generational -- one female hoofer comments on the fact that Bausch continued working with dancers 40 and over -- and they often prance, romp and leap to and fro in revealing outfits. In The Rite of Spring number the women’s tops cling to their nipples and they lift filmy skirts to reveal their panties; in another set piece a male dancer literally drops his drawers as he dances from one female to another. It seems to me that Pina’s choreography expressed a yearning to be liberated, to overcome restraints, and that her work included an erotic dimension along these lines.

Pina has no plot, some dialogue, and is mainly for fans of modern dance, 3D and/or Wenders. It is Germany's Official Foreign-Language Oscar Submission and part of the AFI Film Festival’s Special Screenings section.

AFI 2011: WUSS

2011-11-08T19:21:00.000-08:00

Mitch (Nate Rubin) in Wuss.

Done dork deal

By Don Simpson

Meet Mitch (Nate Rubin), a meek and measly twerp of a high school English teacher (technically, a substitute with a long-term assignment) who is known by some, including Assistant Principal, Wally Combs (Alex Karpovsky), as “Little Bitch”. Mitch allows himself to be teased, ridiculed and slapped around by every living being with whom he comes into contact, no matter their age or gender. He is an aspiring fiction writer who plays D&D (as in Dungeons and Dragons) with his high school friends and still lives at home with his mom and queen bitch of a sister (Jennifer Sipes). It is as if high school never ended for Mitch. Once a wuss, always a wuss.

Judging from Mitch’s very first English II class, it is quite obvious that the students will dictate the rules of the classroom, with the school thug Re-up (Ryan Anderson) leading the wolf pack. Mitch makes fast enemies with Re-up and embarrassingly wears a plethora of scars and bruises to prove it. Nonetheless, Mitch plows onward with his classes, discussing On the Beach, Dune, and the Bible (the first science fiction novel?). Enter Maddie (Alicia Anthony), a marching band student. She takes a liking to Mitch and uses her remarkably powerful influence around school to protect him.

Though writer-director Clay Liford asserts that Wuss is not intended to carry any social or political significance, it paints a sharp critique of how high schools have evolved, with their metal detectors and overly “mature” student population. On paper, the overall plot seems to be torn straight from a Hollywood script, but Liford unearths a profound intensity that lends Wuss a uniquely dire sense of realism, thanks to strong performances by Rubin and Anthony. While some of the supporting cast appear as purposefully clownish stereotypes, the characters of Mitch and Maddie never once veer away from being incredibly realistic…even as they smoke dope together while listening to the Alan Parson’s Project.

Typically, cinema does not provide us with a wuss who is as endearing as Mitch; they are usually annoyingly stupid characters with few redeeming qualities. But Mitch seems like a perfectly nice guy. He is not stupid and apparently he is not a wuss by choice. Mitch’s supreme wussiness seems to be in his blood or maybe his genes — there is no hope for him to ever escape it.

AFI 2011: CORIOLANUS

2011-11-08T18:16:00.000-08:00

Tullus (Gerard Butler) and Caius (Ralph Fiennes) in Coriolanus.

Ass wipe out

By Don Simpson

Coriolanus opens in Rome soon after the expulsion of the Tarquin kings and the Roman citizens (the 99 percent, if you will) are up in arms because the man (the one percent, if you will) is withholding their access to grain. The unruly citizens specifically blame a Roman general named Caius (Ralph Fiennes) for their state of woe — to which Caius fiercely retorts that the plebeians are not worthy of the grain due to their lack of military service.

Caius then goes off to battle against the Volscian army, specifically targeting their commander, Tullus (Gerard Butler). Upon his return to Rome, the leader of the Roman army, Cominius (John Kani) grants Caius the title of “Coriolanus”. Coriolanus’ mother (Vanessa Redgrave) encourages her son to ride this tidal wave of popularity and run for political office. He effortlessly wins the support of the Roman Senate, but the commoners are a trickier matter, especially because two tribunes of Rome — Brutus (Paul Jesson) and Sicinius (James Nesbitt) — are scheming to undo Coriolanus by spinning a web of rhetoric in order to convince the malleable masses that Coriolanus is not a hero but a traitor to Rome.

The Complete Wrks of Wllm Shkspr (Abridged) refers to William Shakespeare’s much overlooked Coriolanus as “the anus play." As if this is not strange enough, Fiennes opts to feature Shakespeare’s “anus play” as his directorial debut, and then chooses to set the John Logan adapted tale (mind the pun) in a non-specific (presumably contemporary) time period.

Fiennes’ approach to Coriolanus seems to be one of disorientation. As if delivering the antiquated prose of Shakespeare into a modern setting is not jarring enough, Fiennes utilizes an international cast, who speak unabashedly in their native accents. To top it all off, Fiennes juxtaposes the displaced dialogue and voices with the shaky kino-eye of neo-realist cinematographer Barry Ackroyd (Green Zone, The Hurt Locker, Battle in Seattle) in order to convey a pseudo-documentary aesthetic. As the unreal and the hyper-real clash, no survivors are taken.

AFI 2011: LE CERCLE ROUGE

2011-11-08T14:11:00.000-08:00

Corey (Alain Delon) in Le Cercle Rouge.

Another round with a master

By Ed Rampell

One of the great things about film festivals is that screenings of classic movies can revive forgotten or overlooked pictures, and give audiences a second look at them. It’s sort of like discovering a long, lost relative, and the AFI Film Festival is no exception to this revival tradition. Guest Artistic Director Pedro Almodóvar selected and introduced one of his personal favorites, Jean-Pierre Melville’s Le Cercle Rouge.

With crime dramas such as 1956’s Bob le Flambeur, Melville was one of those few pre-New Wave French directors the Cahiers du Cinema gang of upstart critics championed. During his intro at the Egyptian movie palace, Almodóvar noted the lingering influence Melville has had on auteurs, such as Pulp Fiction’s Quentin Tarantino. The Spanish director of films such as 1988’s Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown also informed the audience that while the title of Le Cercle Rouge refers to a Zen saying (and not to a European terrorist group) “alluding to destiny,” that viewers should not be on the verge of a nervous breakdown because this thriller “is not a Zen film but an intense action” movie. Although the 1970 French picture does indeed open with a quote from Rama Krishna, Almodóvar is, of course, right.

This caper film follows two criminals and a policeman drummed off of the force for corrupt behavior. The dashing Alain Delon, a sort of Gallic Errol Flynn, stars as the convict Corey, who is released from prison but plans another big heist. The Italian actor Gian Maria Volontè plays Vogel, a con on the run whose fate becomes wrapped up in Corey’s. They have a solidarity with one another forged in the crucible of crime. Significantly, the nature of the offenses they have committed is never revealed.

They join forces with the great French actor Yves Montand -- a dead ringer for Bogie in his trench coat -- who plays the defrocked cop Jansen, who despite his inner demons is a remarkable marksman.

The cat-loving Corsican Commissioner Mattei (André Bourvil) is hot on their trail, as the cynical Inspector General (Paul Amiot) -- who suspects most men harbor evil in their hearts and presumes all men to be guilty -- breathes down Mattei’s neck to recapture Vogel, who’d escaped from his clutches. As Almodóvar noted in his intro, Le Cercle Rouge is a profoundly “pessimistic film,” but this movie made by the director of three policiers starring Delon, including 1967’s Le Samouraï, is great fun to watch as over the course of two hours and 20 minutes, the characters meet their preordained destinies.

AFI 2011: MAMA AFRICA

2011-11-07T19:30:00.000-08:00

Nelson Mandela and Miriam Makeba in Mama Africa.

Songs of the free

By Ed Rampell

Mika Kaurismäki's Mama Africa is a documentary about the singer Miriam Makeba, a sort of South African version of Paul Robeson. Like her African-American counterpart, Makeba used her talent, celebrity and personal wealth to support progressive causes -- most notably in favor of Black rights -- and was made to pay quite a heavy price.

After Makeba’s songs appeared on the soundtrack of an anti-apartheid doc around 1960, Makeba was exiled for life from the land of her birth. The Afrikaner racists, however, blundered; beyond their clutches Makeba’s stardom rose overseas and she used her fame as an artist to speak out on the world stage, including at the U.N. during the height of Africa’s independence movement.

Relocating to New York, a political and cultural epicenter, Makeba debuted at the famous Village Vanguard, and was then befriended by Harry Belafonte -- himself a civil rights icon as well as a singing sensation -- who used his own influence to propel Makeba’s career. Along with other left-leaning stars such as Marlon Brando, Makeba was befriended by show biz’s progressive wing. Around the same time Makeba became the songbird darling of the leaders of the newly independent African states, such as Tanzania’s Julius Nyerere.

As the Black liberation movement in the U.S. intensified and moved from nonviolent protest to its more militant phase, Miriam met, and rather amazingly, married the firebrand activist Stokely Carmichael, who had coined the phrase “Black Power.” Kaurismäki rather cleverly cuts a sequence that goes back and forth from a rabblerousing Carmichael speech to Makeba singing a defiant sounding song. In fact, she performs the latter via a form of scatting, making sounds by rhythmically breathing heavily into the microphone while accompanied by her backup band. (Makeba was also known for incorporating words and letters from her Xhosa indigenous tongue -- which Westerners call “clicking” -- into her songs.)

Mama Africa takes us on a fascinating odyssey to Guinea, where Carmichael and Makeba lived in exile -- he, from racist, segregationist America and she from apartheid South Africa – for much of their 10-year marriage. The film presents a fascinating glimpse into their life abroad and takes us to the home they shared in the so-called “Dark Continent.” Unfortunately, their divorce and the coup that ousted the leftist government that had provided the revolutionary couple with sanctuary are only indicated or mentioned in passing.

Kaurismäki uses typical nonfiction techniques, such as original interviews with talking heads (including ex-husband Hugh Masekela, other musical collaborators, relatives), news clips and other archival movie material. But in addition to the uplifting presence of Makeba herself, what really enlivens Mama Africa is the extensive footage of Makeba performing and strutting her stuff, at concerts, on TV, etc. And once Nelson Mandela is freed from prison, Makeba becomes a daughter for the return home, ending her forced exile from her South African homeland. Retracing the epic footsteps of Miriam Makeba, Mama Africa takes us from tragedy to triumph – and what a thrilling ride it is.

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AFI 2011: CARRE BLANC

2011-11-07T17:48:00.000-08:00

Philippe (Majid Hives) in Carré Blanc.

Scared new world

By Don Simpson

When he was just a boy, the mother (Fejria Deliba) of Philippe (Majid Hives) took a swan dive from balcony of their nondescript cement high rise flat. Her reasoning behind doing so was that this act would toughen Philippe and prepare him for the brutal Social Darwinian world outside. Philippe is ushered off to a State-run boarding school where orphans are molded (read: conformed) into productive members of society. This is where Philippe meets his one and only friend, Marie (Adèle Exarchopoulos), in this cruel world where friendship is rapidly becoming extinct.

Years later we find the adult Philippe (Sami Bouajila) working for the State as an interrogator/indoctrinator. He “trains” people via performance tests to become better (read: conformed) citizens. In one such test, he tells his subjects to stand up against a wall, then walk backwards. The test is like a riddle that none of Philippe’s clients seem to be able to conquer yet the solution is so simple once it is revealed by Philippe. Another test is less simple — it entails studying how long the subjects will “willingly” electrocute themselves. Though it is never explained, it seems as though part of Philippe’s role might be to separate society’s mindless sheep from the potential herdsmen.

At some point in the past, Philippe married Marie (Julie Gayet). We can only assume that they were happy — at least content — for a while, but the present reveals an unconquerable tension between the couple. Philippe buries his feelings beneath his frigidly clinical exterior and Marie’s psyche splinters as she no longer sees any reason to exist.

This is a cruel and emotionless world that Marie and Philippe live in -- love, like anything colorful or creative, has been totally negated from existence. Those who will not conform — those who retain a desire to be creative or possess emotions — only have one escape…suicide.

Muzak is pumped like oxygen from the atmosphere of this world to lull the masses into submission. Carré Blanc also features an omnipresent Orwellian loudspeaker over which repeated recitations of Big Brother-esque propaganda promoting teen pregnancy and the moral benefits of croquet are disseminated to all. This same public address system also functions as an invisible Greek Chorus, sardonically commenting upon the on screen events.

The dystopian world takes place in what seems more like a parallel world rather than our future. Though seemingly non-related to our reality — stripping it of relevant political rhetoric — Jean-Baptiste Léonetti’s mesmerizing first feature recalls the bitingly literate social commentary of Albert Camus, Aldous Huxley and Franz Kafka…with a little Terry Gilliam (circa Brazil) thrown in for good measure.

AFI 2011: SNOWTOWN

2011-11-07T15:57:00.000-08:00

Jamie (Lucas Pittaway) in Snowtown.

Brain freeze

By Don Simpson

Sixteen-year-old Jamie (Lucas Pittaway) lives with his single mother, Elizabeth (Louise Harris), and two younger brothers in Adelaide’s severely disenfranchised northern suburbs. On one fateful day, Elizabeth brings home a new boyfriend, John (Daniel Henshall). Jamie instantly connects with John, discovering the father-figure he has always desired. John seems like a nice enough guy and he provides Jamie’s entire family with a stability and sense of family that they have never known.

Eventually, though, John chooses to indoctrinate Jamie into his self-righteous world of bigotry and malice. An ultra-conservative redneck vigilante, John has made it his life’s mission to rid the world of unacceptable behavior. John assembles a consortium of like-minded townspeople to assist him with compiling a target list of anyone who is rumored to be a child molester, drug addict, gay, obese, or otherwise deemed abnormal.

Jamie begins to tag along with John’s gang of simpletons as they capture, torture and murder their prey. Seemingly by osmosis, Jamie begins to take on some of John’s personality and philosophy. All the while, Jamie retains enough reason to be uncomfortable with the killings and some of John’s motivations, but loyalty and fear cause him to continue down the downward spiral of senseless bloody mayhem.

A biopic about Australia’s most notorious serial killer — John Bunting — Snowtown is a surprisingly restrained and contemplative film. True, it does delve quite graphically into the very darkest recesses of brutality; but rather than showcasing (glorifying) violence in order to merely shock and awe the audience, writer-director Justin Kurzel is much more interested in coercing the audience to relate to Jamie and therefore sympathize with him. We are wooed by John just as Jamie is. It is difficult not to believe, at least at first, that John means well -- that he is merely trying to protect Jamie’s family.

Snowtown relies heavily upon the audience’s belief in Jamie’s story. Kurzel certainly reveals no doubts in Jamie’s version of the events, but that does not mean it is historically accurate. Remember, this is a very specific perspective of John Bunting’s story — whether or not you believe it is totally up to you.

AFI 2011: FAUST

2011-11-06T00:26:00.000-07:00

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (Anton Adasinsky) in Faust.

Deal with the devil

By Ed Rampell

Most theatergoers will have to make a Faustian bargain with the devil in order to be able to sit through this slow moving, sleep inducing, ponderous, subtitled 134-minute film in order to experience some striking images and profound insights into the human condition (plus a couple of erotic shots gloriously projected on the big screen). In Russian director Alexander Sokurov’s 2011 adaptation of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s Faust, Johannes Zeiler places Dr. Faust, who literally sells his soul in order to obtain the beautiful Margarete (Isolda Dychauk) and infinite knowledge. Anton Adasinsky delivers a devilishly creepy performance as a misshapen, not so majestic satanic majesty who appears as a moneylender. (What better earthly persona for Mephistopheles than a pawnbroker?)

Brunno Delbonnel’s (who shot the crowd pleasing French romance, Amelie) sumptuous cinematography can be stunning, notably when Faust and Margarete fall into a lake together – the suggestion of drowning summons up the film’s theme – or when his camera is trained on haunting landscapes. He and Sokurov transport us back in time to 18^th century Germany, and Faust has an alternately real and surreal look. I suspect the director of photography uses an anamorphic lens to distort images in a number of scenes to suggest the supernatural nature of this tale about man’s hubristic, arrogant quest to know, and have, all.

This Russian Faust in German (with English subtitles) has the grotesque imagery and content often dubbed “Felliniesque,” but Sokurov fails to conjure up Federico Feliini’s trademark sly wit and style to comment on the human condition with an underlying joie de vivre. This is the final installment in Sokurov’s tetralogy about power corrupting, and absolute power corrupting absolutely. His Faust may have won the Venice Film Festival’s Golden Lion, but I prefer the charming biopic in theaters now about Faust’s author, Young Goethe in Love, which is actually a joy to behold.

AFI 2011: THIS IS NOT A FILM

2011-11-05T21:23:00.000-07:00

Jafar Panahi in This is Not a Film.

Knight of Eye C-ydonia

By Ed Rampell

When an AFI Film Festival official introduced this remarkable documentaryat the Chinese 1 Theater he lamented that the Iranian filmmakers behind and in front of it could not be present to do so themselves, as their passports had been seized and they were being detained by authorities of the Islamic Republic. At the end of this nonfiction rumination on – as co-director Jafar Panahi puts it -- “filmmakers not making films” – some audience members shouted: “Free Iran.”

Faced with unspecified crimes against the state, Jafar Panahi, whose 1995 The White Balloon won the Camera d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival, has been forbidden from making movies in Iran or to leave the country where he could conceivably do so, for 20 years. So he collaborated with another filmmaker, Mojtaba Mirtahmasb (2008’s Lady of the Rose), to co-direct the pithily named This is Not a Film. The documentary records a day in the life of Panahi in his Tehran apartment, as he speaks on the phone with his attorney about the possibility of going to jail and from being banned from making movies.

Panahi tries to find some wiggle room from that onerous sentence, as it does not explicitly forbidden his reenacting and in particular reading the scripts he’s written of films he’d like to shoot. The defrocked director also screens clips from some of his previously made movies, as Mirtahmasb shoots him. There are a number of long takes and a kind of monitor lizard named Igi steals several scenes as he slithers about Panahi’s posh apartment. Throughout, the director -- who is presumably under some sort of house arrest -- generally retains his composure, only blowing his cool a couple of times when considering the injustice of not being able to practice his avocation for, perhaps, up to two decades. Considering the constraints he is acting under, Panahi seems to hold up well and, like his colleague behind the camera, admirable.

Towards the end an art student moonlighting as a janitor while his sister delivers her baby appears to collect and throw the garbage out. In the course of his conversation with the apartment dweller/noted director, Panahi corrects a comment the university pupil makes and insists that yes indeed, one “can make a film with [only] a cell phone” video camera. Panahi and Mirtahmasb prove that creativity and ingenuity not only trump technology and production budgets, but also political censorship. For my money, this film is far better than anything Michael Bay has ever helmed with his mega-million budgets.

The aptly titled This is Not a Film is also a testament to artists resisting repression, and to humanity refusing to accept persecution. In any case, it turns out that the clever This is Not a Film not only is, but this documentary, apparently entirely shot in a single day, has earned a rarefied spot in cinema history.

To paraphrase Winston Churchill’s commendation of the RAF: Never have so few done so much with so little. Panahi and Mirtahmasb are filmic freedom flyers. Portentously set against the backdrop of New Year’s celebrations in Iran and perhaps anti-government demonstrations in Iran, this documentary made against all odds somehow manages to end on a note of hope. Yes, “free Iran” indeed.

And while we’re at it, lest we Westerners get smug, free Julian Assange, too!

AFI 2011: EXTRATERRESTRIAL

2011-11-05T08:41:00.000-07:00

Julio (Julián Villagrán) and Julia (Michelle Jenner) in Extraterrestrial.

Strange bed gals

By Don Simpson

Julio (Julián Villagrán) wakes up in an unfamiliar apartment after one hell of a bender. Enter an incredibly attractive young woman whose name is eerily similar to his own, Julia (Michelle Jenner). Julia and Julio surmise that they must have drank themselves into a blacked-out state of oblivion on Saturday night, and they have slept most of Sunday away.

They fumble through an incredibly awkward conversation. It is overtly obvious that Julia wants to get Julio out of her apartment pronto, but then they notice the eerily unusual stillness outside. No one is on the street below Julia’s apartment. Their cellphones are not working, neither is the Internet or television. Around this time they notice a colossal alien spacecraft looming over the horizon.

So… Maybe Julio should not leave? Then Julia’s nosy neighbor, Ángel (Carlos Areces), stops by. He seems to be the only other person in the building. Why did he not evacuate with everyone else? Then, when Carlos (Raúl Cimas) arrives, the sexual tension comes to a head and things get really complicated. The men — all with romantic hopes of winning Julia’s heart — use the mysterious spaceship as a means to shut each other out of Julia’s apartment. They spread the fear of an alien invasion, specifically that one or more of them might actually be an alien in disguise. The lies and manipulations snowball to the point of ridiculously comical proportions.

With Extraterrestrial, Nacho Vigalondo utilizes what could very well be a lost Twilight Zone episode to cleverly examine human relationships and the extreme lengths that men will go to in order to “win” a woman. Extraterrestrial also works as a well-crafted metaphor for the way that the fear of the “other” is often used to manipulate people’s emotional responses to situations.

AFI 2011: GREEN

2011-11-04T20:34:00.000-07:00

A scene from Green.

The second sex

By Don Simpson

Sebastian (Lawrence Michael Levine) and Genevieve (Kate Lyn Sheil) rent a secluded country house in rural West Virginia because Sebastian has been commissioned to work on a sustainable agriculture blog. Does Sebastian have a background in agriculture? No, but he is a bookish, hyper-intelligent fellow who is wholeheartedly confident that he can hoe with the best of them.

Genevieve, who is Sebastian’s intellectual equal, is just along for the ride. She finds herself having to be entirely reliant upon Sebastian — a demeaning and degrading position for any person to be in. The backwoods of West Virginia offer no possibilities for work or entertainment; Genevieve’s only hope is that her books will keep her company while Sebastian is off toiling in the dirt.

Then, Robin (Sophia Takal) stumbles into the picture. Her primitive intellectual naiveté is no match for the patronizing couple from New York City, but Genevieve befriends Robin despite her uneducatedness. Then again, what other choice does she have? To say that Robin is gregarious and eager is an understatement; she is like a stray dog that has find found the owners that she always desired.

Genevieve and Sebastian possess a burning desire to out-smart each other — repeatedly challenging each other’s knowledge of literature, art and philosophy. The couple begins to struggle with problems in the bedroom which excites Genevieve’s imagination, prompting thoughts that Sebastian is screwing Robin.

Green comes from a uniquely feminine perspective as writer-director Sophia Takal takes on female jealousy and discusses the effect said jealousy has on personal relationships and one’s own grasp on reality. Insecurity, anxiety, and madness fester in Genevieve’s mind due to paranoia and miscommunication, and we discover that even though Genevieve’s hatred and aggression seems to be directed towards Robin, the situation really unearths Genevieve’s true feelings for Sebastian.

Takal has cited my favorite Robert Altman film — 3 Women — as an influence on Green. Both films approach female relationships — specifically female jealousy — with a certain level of obliqueness. Atmosphere and environment play an important factor in both films too. Specifically for Green, the densely forested environs are not only suffocating and ostracizing but they also lend Green a spooky and menacing horror film aesthetic. Something always appears to be lurking in the woods.

THEATER REVIEW: HOPE

2011-11-03T18:12:00.000-07:00

A scene from Hope.

Surviving the American Dream

By Ed Rampell

The TV series Mad Men and Pan Am have done it, and now the musicalHope flashbacks to the era of the Kennedy presidency. But this time Camelot has a Chicano twist, as the Latino Theater Company production follows the Garcia family while they negotiate the early 1960s in Phoenix. These Mexican-Americans are hopeful that with America’s first Catholic president, the American dream may embrace them, too.

Hope uses a clever if well worn plot device to conjure up major celebs or historical figures as personal advisers. Woody Allen deployed Humphrey Bogart in the play and 1972 movie, Play It Again, Sam, the Yugoslav leader Marshall Tito was invoked in the 1992 comedy, Tito and Me, and Bruce Lee was summoned in the East West Players 2008 dramedy, Be Like Water. In Hope adolescent Betty (Olivia Cristina Delgado), who has a crush on Kennedy, creates an imaginary relationship with JFK (little did she know!), who counsels her on life’s trial and tribulations. President Kennedy is wittily evoked through shadowy images projected above the set as he speaks on the phone in the Oval Office.

Archival film footage depicting Cold War major events are likewise projected overhead, serving to anchor the Garcias’ lives in their historic times in this period piece. Pop songs, too, serve to summon up the America of half a century ago. However, numbers such as "Mister Sandman" and "Please Mr. Postman" are not sixties songs merely played in the background; instead, the cast actually performs the numbers, accompanied by pianist and musical director Ben Taylor.

With the exception of compilation type musicals such as the 1985 Broadway show, Leader of the Pack and Mama Mia! (which is a similar genre), this is the first time I remember seeing a professional production wherein songs created by other artists for entirely different purposes were co-opted and used onstage in a completely different musical. Be that as it may, the pop classics are well-performed and remain a delight to hear, as they reinforce the sense of time chronicled in Hope.

The Garcia family drama includes the usual machismo mishegas, with the poor misunderstood philandering husband, Carlos (Geoffrey Rivas) and the long suffering wife, Elena (Dyana Ortelli). However, the skilled Sal Lopez, a founding member of the venerable LTC, injects a note of tenderness and vulnerability as the family friend Enrique. As the eldest sibling, Esperanza America Ibarra plays the sulking, brooding, pouty angry young woman Gina; what happens to her is telegraphed from miles away.

As this is the Chicano version of Camelot, the politically savvy playwright Evelina Fernandez and director Jose Luis Valenzuela reveal the chinks in the armor of the knights of the Kennedy administration. Although revisionist historians often overlook or downplay the role the U.S.-backed Bay of Pigs invasion played in Cuba’s decision to protect itself from the Yanqui colossus to the North with Soviet nukes, Fernandez’s script is wise enough to remind us of this inconvenient truth.

Hope runs through Nov. 13 at the Los Angeles Theatre Centre, 514 S. Spring St., CA 90013. For more info: (866) 811-4111; www.thelatc.org.

FILM REVIEW: YOUNG GOETHE IN LOVE

2011-11-03T12:22:00.000-07:00

Johann Woflgang von Goethe (Alexander Fehling) in Young Goethe in Love.

What a bargain

By Ed Rampell

There are many reasons to go see co-writer/director Philipp Stölzl’s Young Goethe in Love. Much of Young is a “movie movie”: A highly entertaining, well told, rip roaring yarn full of romance, humor and adventure. The lush, stylish cinematography of this period piece transports audiences back to late 18^th century Germany with an optical opulence suffused with what we Yanks like to call “Old World charm.” This biopic is in the Amadeus and Shakespeare In Love mode, and viewers unfamiliar with that other Wolfgang -- Johann Woflgang von Goethe (Alexander Fehling) -- will learn much about the post-Renaissance Man, who wrote the masterpiece, Faust. This German film with subtleties and subtitles also has profound messages about the creative process, what it means to be an artist, parental approval, family, true love and more, all depicted in a most enjoyable fashion.

Young begins with the aspiring poet-playwright-novelist being straitjacketed into a legal career, as the 23-year-old’s early avante garde writing is rejected by publishers and Goethe is pressured to please his father, a stern attorney (played by Henry Hubchen, who was the only East German to be nominated for an Oscar, for his role in 1974’s Jakob, the Liar). After rather flamboyantly flunking the bar at Leipzig, Goethe leaps to a remote provincial court, courtesy of his strings pulling, well-connected father. There Goethe apprentices under the tutelage of Albert Kestner, a rather tough taskmaster (Moritz Bleibtrau). Alas, to paraphrase Jackson Browne, our man Goethe doesn’t want to be a lawyer in – or out – of love.

While clerking at the city state of Wetzlar Goethe encounters Lotte Buff, portrayed by Miriam Stein. He is initially attracted to Lotte because she has a sonorous singing voice and shows herself to be quite spirited. He woos her and finds that the literate Lotte encourages his artistic self to create, instead of shackling himself to a barrister’s bench. As they young lovers discover their true inner selves, Young Goethe in Love includes one of the sexiest lovemaking scenes to grace the screen in recent movie memory.

However, Goethe is not the only suitor attracted to the free spirited songbird. As in most love stories, the lovers are faced with seemingly insurmountable obstacles blocking their romance. The penniless law clerk must contend with a wealthier, more powerful rival for Lotte’s attentions. Out of the emotional cauldron of this eternal triangle emerged Goethe’s immortal The Sorrows of Young Werther (which went on to become a wildly successful bestseller, number one on The Leipzig Times’ Top 10 list).

Young Goethe in Love makes a sharp detour from its sexy, witty course with a dramatic second act full of sturm und drang. Will this film, unlike The Sorrows of Young Werther, have a happy ending? And how factual is this biopic? What Lotte says about the book her romance with Goethe inspired also rings true for this ebullient film: “It’s more than the truth. It is poetry.”

The dashing, handsome Fehling portrays Goethe with great panache, playfulness and pathos. Stein, as Lotte, likewise displays verve, winsomeness and an early feminist yearning to be free and to bask in the glow of love for love’s sake. With only his third feature Stölzl is revealing himself to be a masterful craftsman. His 2008 North Face was a well made, clever anti-Nazi feature about mountaineering; shrewd because Hitler’s favorite filmmaker, Leni Riefenstahl, made a name for herself in “Mountain” movies before she directed Third Reich agitprop.

In Young Goethe in Love, Lotte performs an act of true love and the film ends on a Rocky-like note of triumph that all artists dream of, but few ever attain. However, to find out how Lotte and Johann’s affair turns out, and what, exactly, that triumphant denouement is, you’ll just have to see Young Goethe in Love yourself, dear reader.

Personally, I left the screening room feeling lighthearted and happy to be alive. It did my soul good, without having to make a Faustian bargain with the devil to do so. The best reason to experience Young Goethe in Love is simply because you like yourself and want to treat yourself to a great time. Why? Because you deserve it, dearest viewer.

THEATER REVIEW: PEACE IN OUR TIME

2011-11-02T19:25:00.000-07:00

No, el coward

By Ed Rampell

The Antaeus Company -- which “strives to keep classical theater vibrantly alive by presenting productions with a top-flight ensemble company of actors” -- has succeeded admirably in doing so by reviving two great anti-fascist dramas. Both plays presented by Antaeus are alternative histories that imagine “what if” fascism had taken over England and America.

Noël Coward is primarily remembered as a sophisticated showman, composer of songs such as Mad Dogs and Englishmen and an urbane writer of risqué romances, such as Brief Encounter (about an extramarital affair), Private Lives (which Liz and Dick rather famously revived onstage in 1983) and Blithe Spirit (about a ghost haunting her husband after he remarries). But Coward’s 1946 Peace in Our Time shows that when the playwright encountered Nazism, he was anything but blithe in his spirited drama about the public lives of Englishmen confronting Hitler’s mad dogs.

Peace in Our Time is actually more in the mode of Coward’s 1942 Oscar-winning moral boosting masterpiece World War II film, In Which We Serve, which he wrote, scored and co-directed with David Lean, than his sexy stories. Like Serve, Coward’s love affair in Peace is with England, as Brits battle blitz. John Apicella’s projections of archival footage of the Battle of Britain, etc., help set the scene. During the first act the Third Reich conquers the U.K., and the rest of the two-hour and 45-minute or so play takes place in a London pub where we encounter a cross section of British society.

Just as a school served as a microcosm for Britain in Lindsay Anderson’s 1969 student revolt film, If…, Peace’s pub likewise doubles as a microcosm of an imagined occupied England. There are resisters, collaborators and of course, Germans, in the pub, which is an abbreviation for public house. Antaeus’ Co-Artistic Director Tony Amendola pointed out to me that these drinking establishments played a central role in British culture as a central meeting place, which Shakespeare noted in his plays featuring Falstaff. Scenic Designer Tom Buderwitz has done yeoman’s work and performed marvels in transforming the Deaf West Theatre’s stage into a highly realistic replica of a pub, and deserves kudos for his realism and attention to detail.

Australian Barry Creyton’s adaptation of Coward’s Peace adds nine of Coward’s own Music Hall-style songs that weren’t in the original version of the drama, and they are seamlessly interwoven into the play, accompanied by an upright piano with Richard Levinson tickling the ivories. The ditties obviously serve to liven things up, and numbers such as London Pride, Don’t Let’s Be Beastly to the Germans (banned by a humorless BBC!) and Could You Please Oblige Us with a Bren Gun? fully display Coward’s clever wordplay and wit, which Monty Python, Dudley Moore and Peter Cook evolved out of.

Casey Stangl does a far better job directing his ensemble cast than the baseball manager with a similar name did managing the New York Mets back in the 1960s. Unlike the Mets, the Antaeus team never drops the ball, which continues rolling along. As there are 22 speaking parts, and the roles are double-casted on alternate nights, your intrepid reviewer only has space to single a few thesps out who trod the boards opening night.

Steve Hofvendahl is steadfast as Fred Shattock, the stalwart bartender with a slow fuse who precariously presides over his slice of British life. Emily Chase has a masterful, veddy English accent that sounds as if she shoplifted it from PBS’ Masterpiece Theater. Chase alternates in the role of the writer Janet Braid, who personifies patriotic spirit and love of the “sceptred isle,” unblushingly quoting Sakespeare’s immortal lines -- “This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England” – as a rebuke to the Nazi collaborator. Take that!

As said turncoat, JD Cullum is perfect as Chorley Bannister, the snobby editor who, after the Hitlerian invasion, goes along to get along. However, it seems that this character is supposed to be gay, and if this is the case, it’s sad that Coward, himself a closeted homosexual, would choose to make the Brit who sells out to the Germans a practitioner of the love that dare not say its name (especially under Third Reich rule!). If Coward equated collaborating with being queer and considered homosexuality to be a signpost of a personality or character defect, then the otherwise valiant anti-fascist Coward was here a rather cowardly lion.

Peace in Our Time runs through Dec. 11 at the Deaf West Theatre, 5112 Lankershim Blvd., North Hollywood, CA 91601. For more info: (818)506-1983; www.Antaeus.org.

AUSTIN 2011: SOMEWHERE WEST

2011-10-27T17:25:00.000-07:00

Ian (Barrett Ogden) in Somewhere West.

Death be proud

By Don Simpson

Ian (Barrett Ogden) has opted to forgo further treatment for a stage four brain tumor in his occipital lobe. Instead, he embarks upon a meandering cross-country journey in search of a solitary place to die. He does not get very far in his journey before he picks up another aimless wanderer, Ryan (Judson Webb). Ian is reluctant to take on a travel companion, but Ryan essentially offers him no other options. Then, before he knows it, a couple of other broken characters form a caravan with Ian and Ryan with the singular mission of helping Ian find peace and happiness in his final days.

You might say that Somewhere West is essentially about euthanasia in slow motion. Ian refuses to allow his doctors to force him to receive treatment for such a hopeless case because they would only be extending his pain and discomfort. He would prefer to live his dying days naturally, immersed in some of the most beautiful landscapes the United States has to offer, including: Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, The Badlands, Black Hills, Devils Tower, Yellowstone, and Utah’s Salt Flats.

Somewhere West is writer-director David Marek’s Master of Fine Arts thesis project for the University of Colorado. I suspect that producing a film such as this one within the realm of academia is what permitted Malek the freedom to playfully experiment with the visuals of the film — doing so allows us to experience the world from Ian’s perspective. This technique lends Somewhere West a certain avant garde aesthetic along the lines of Gus Van Zant’s Gerry. And, from what I have read, Somewhere West originally clocked in at 134 minutes; but Marek has since whittled it down to a much more festival-friendly length of 103 minutes. At its current length, Somewhere West plays at a pensive and meditative pace (which may be way too slow for some viewers). I really cannot imagine how slowly the narrative would move if it were 31 minutes longer.

AUSTIN 2011: THE STAND UP

2011-10-27T17:04:00.000-07:00

Zoe (Jonathan Hollis) in The Stand Up.

Miranda is dead. Boo who?

By Don Simpson

Zoe (Jonathan Sollis) is a stand up comedian who is desperately in love with his beautiful girlfriend, Miranda (Julia Dennis). Miranda dies suddenly, putting Zoe into a bitter and jaded state of depression. Then, after one year of being “Mr. Doom and Gloom”, Zoe finds himself forced to…ummm…teach kindergarten? That is right! But, luckily there is a super cute fellow kindergarten teacher, Veronica (Margarita Levieva). And, well, I think we all know exactly where the story goes from here.

But it is how it gets there that is pretty darn fantastic. Jonathan Sollis gives an excellent performance. Not only does he have a great rapport with the students, but he plays the formulaic role with utmost sincerity and naturalism. It also helps that Sollis is not your typical Hollywood hunk — he is more of an everyman. If The Stand Up were a big budget Hollywood film, Seth Rogen would have been cast as Zoe; and though I like Rogen, I guarantee that he would have amped the character up to 11. Sollis’ subdued approach to Zoe reveals great patience. He is also able to communicate a heck of lot of information to the audience merely with his eyes.

I typically fault writers and directors for making overtly formulaic films, but writer-director David Wexler’s The Stand Up is a rare exception to that rule. Heck, even “allergies” made my eyes mysteriously misty during the inevitable happy ending. Ugh! I really hate having my heartstrings tugged like that!

AUSTIN 2011: PILLOW

2011-10-26T17:57:00.000-07:00

Ed Lowry and John Isner in Pillow.

Shhhh!

By Don Simpson

The cackling voice of an overbearing mother (voice by Mitchell Crisp) screams from an unseen upstairs bedroom that she wants a “respectable pillow.” The local general store’s pillow bin is bare, but when a feather falls from approaching storm clouds, the two hapless brothers (Ed Lowry and John Isner) get the bright idea to go fishing for an angel while a haunting rendition of “Amazing Grace” (by Michael Sutterfield) plays from their phonograph. That is where the angel (Kristen Stracener) comes in. Umm… Yeah, Pillow definitely is a surreal fantasy.

Co-writing/co-directing/co-producing brothers Joshua H. Miller and Miles B. Miller rely solely on their adept visual styling to convey the story because, well, the brothers in the film don’t talk much—heck, they don’t talk at all. Except for the screaming mother (who is only heard and never seen), Pillow is essentially a silent film. This stunningly photographed (by Gabe Mayhan) Southern Gothic tale set somewhere in the Southern Plains during the 1930s, recalls the stylistic sensibilities of the illustrious cinematographer Roger Deakins (who is probably best known for his work with the Coen Brothers—and his nine Oscar nominations).

AUSTIN 2011: HELL AND BACK AGAIN

2011-10-26T17:48:00.000-07:00

A scene from Hell and Back Again.

Peace amongst the fire

By Don Simpson

It is the Summer of 2009. A decisive operation is launched by the United States to begin a new counter-insurgency strategy in Afghanistan. The U.S. Marines of Echo Company 2nd Battalion 8th Regiment are dropped deep behind enemy lines to seize a key objective.

Danfung Dennis’s Hell and Back Again opens with Echo Company preparing to take a Taliban stronghold. During their mission, they are ambushed and lose a man. Six months later — near the end of his deployment with Echo Company — Sergeant Nathan Harris is critically injured by a bone-shattering bullet to his hip. Dennis then follows the 25-year-old Harris back to his home in North Carolina, where he and his wife try to piece their lives back together again.

While in North Carolina, Hell and Back Again ponders if and how a war-ravaged Sergeant can readjust to the civilian world, where parking a car at Wal-Mart becomes more stressful and difficult than time spent behind enemy lines in Afghanistan. When Harris says, “I would rather be in Afghanistan where it’s simple,” we believe him because we can tell just by looking at him how mentally and physically painful his post-Afghanistan life has become.

Harris’ civilian life is a relentless cycle of pain, pills, and nausea. He wheels around town, perpetually over-medicated and depressed. This is the very same guy who initially joined the Marines because he always wanted to kill people. Even now, Harris plays with loaded guns as if they are part of a video game. He would return to Afghanistan in a heartbeat. Even his wife admits that Harris turns in to a different person sometimes. In fact, the man she married will never be returning home.

As if visualizing the post-traumatic flashbacks that Harris must be experiencing, Hell and Back Again seamlessly bounces from Harris’ present day experiences to his time spent in Afghanistan. Obviously not knowing that Harris was going to get injured in battle, Dennis initially tagged along with Echo Company as a full-immersion war documentary ala Restrepo and Armadillo. The war footage is brutal and ugly, but not nearly as scary as the noisy, crowded and fluorescent world waiting for Harris back in the United States.

Strangely enough, Dennis breaks from his cinéma vérité form at the end of Hell and Back Again in making the unlikely decision to visually reenact the scene of Harris’ injury while Harris recollects the event in voiceover. This is Hell and Back Again‘s one major flaw; otherwise, Dennis’ film is masterfully constructed documentary using witty metaphoric editing techniques that bring to mind Sergei Eisenstein’s Strike.

AUSTIN 2011: SOME GUY WHO KILLS PEOPLE

2011-10-25T09:02:00.000-07:00

Ken (Kevin Corrigan) in Some Guy Who Kills People.

That Crazy Ken

By Don Simpson

Will Kevin Corrigan -- the indie film darling who was rivaled only by Steve Buscemi in his near-infinite number of quirky supporting roles clocked in during the 1990s -- ever live down "that ugly guy" (Walking and Talking) moniker? Probably not, because as Some Guy Who Kills People's Ken, Corrigan becomes one of the ugliest characters of them all.

A 34-year old, socially awkward, sad-sack loser -- oh, and former mental patient -- Ken works at a local ice cream parlor and lives with his disapproving mom (Karen Black). Otherwise, Ken just keeps to himself and sketches fantastical images of himself murdering the high school bullies who tortured him as a teenager, made him suicidal and essentially got him away in the loony bin for god knows how long.

One fateful day, Ken discovers that he has an 11-year-old daughter, Amy (Ariel Gade); he also stumbles upon a potential love interest, Stephanie (Lucy Davis). Add a sprinkling of some off-beat cops (Eric Price and Barry Bostwick), and you have a witty black comedy about some guy who is a mysterious serial killer. Some Guy Who Kills People might have a moral about bullies buried somewhere in the story, but does it really matter? Are you really going to watch a film titled Some Guy Who Kills People for its strong moral fiber? Oh, and keep any eye out for a humorously placed lens flare a little over an hour into the film. It is absolutely priceless.

AUSTIN 2011: AFTER FALL, WINTER

2011-10-24T17:14:00.000-07:00

Sophie (Lizzie Brocheré) and Michael (Eric Schaeffer) in After Fall, Winter.

Feminine/Masculine

By Don Simpson

Sophie (Lizzie Brocheré) is a 25-year-old nurse who helps take care of terminally ill people in their final days. She also moonlights as a dominatrix. The two careers describe Sophie very well. She can be gentle and kind, yet she also enjoys control and power. In either scenario she displays the utmost strength and fortitude. Despite her natural beauty, Sophie has never had a boyfriend; perhaps because feeling love for someone would exude weakness.

Sophie is used to taking care of elderly people who are dying, but then she is assigned a 13-year-old gypsy girl — Anais (Marie Luneau) — who is dying of leukemia. Being around Anais changes Sophie and she begins to soften just enough to be receptive to a pushy American author, Michael (Eric Schaeffer). Michael has come to Paris to hide from his dying career and crippling amount of debt. Like some Americans, Michael does not possess adequate enough manners to say, "hello" (or "bonjour," in this case) before entering into a conversation with someone -- a fault Michael quickly corrects, in order to have a chance at winning Sophie. Oh, and Michael is addicted to S&M. He enjoys being dominated by women.

One would think that Sophia and Michael would be the perfect match and they do share a fiery — sometimes combustible — chemistry. Partially due to their language barrier, Michael often comes off as being arrogant and condescending — those are two traits that Sophie does not react well to. Despite being fairly frank about their likes and dislikes in the bedroom, Sophie and Michael opt to hide their love for S&M from each other. This, my friends, is their downfall…

It seems as though films that portray characters who do not abide by vanilla heterosexual behavior in favorable and sympathetic perspectives are a dime a dozen these days. All of these films share a very similar message — we need to be honest about our sexuality, first and foremost with our lovers. Writer-director Schaeffer’s After Fall, Winter is no different. That is not a bad thing. After Fall, Winter clearly communicates a message that needs to be pounded repeatedly through many puritanical Americans’ thick skulls.

What I enjoy most about After Fall, Winter — well, besides Brocheré (The Wedding Song) — is the way that Schaeffer toys with conventional gender roles. Sophie is mostly masculine. She is strong, blunt, and has sex when she wants it, but she shies away from intimate conversations. Michael is mostly feminine. He is a fragile romantic and quick to fall in love; he loves intimate conversations, and — depending on who you ask — he might be described as open and honest.

AUSTIN 2011: 6 MONTH RULE

2011-10-24T14:59:00.000-07:00

Tyler (Blayne Weaver) in 6 Month Rule.

Trapped

By Don Simpson

The titular six month rule is one of many rules created and adhered to by Tyler (Blayne Weaver). It essentially states that after six months, anyone can recover from any relationship. Of course Tyler is a womanizing, commitment-phobic jerk who is unable (and unwilling) to maintain a relationship with any woman for more than six months. Heck, who needs a commitment when you have a sexy model, Wendy (Vanessa Branch), who waits around her apartment in lingerie hoping you will stop by for a “no strings attached” quickie? So, yes, of course Tyler would think relationships are not essential and easy to recover from!

But then fate rears its hand and determines that Tyler will meet Sophie (Natalie Morales) — who instead of being his “usual” type is his “real” type (ah, more warped Tyler logic to digest) — and he falls head over heels for her. This strange twist of fate occurs around the same time that Tyler’s best friend, Alan (Martin Starr), slips into a monotonic depression after a break-up with his long-term “mojito bitch” fiance, Claire (Jaime Pressly).

6 Month Rule is surprisingly formulaic for the first two acts, but then the final act surprisingly defies all conventional Hollywood rom-com/buddy movie tropes. In fact, if it was not for the final act — specifically the conclusion — 6 Month Rule would have never scored more than a four in my book. Sure the film has some interesting characters — notably Sophie — but it is really difficult not to be incredibly annoyed by Tyler. There is also a cartoonish “hipster singer-songwriter” character, Julian (Patrick J. Adams), who warrants nothing more than primal hatred and disgust. But then I eventually realized that all of the negative reactions I was having to the characters of Tyler and Julian were pre-planned by writer-director Blayne Weaver. These are characters whom we are not supposed to like. Sophie is the only sympathetic one; she is the most positively portrayed, the strongest and the most human. I also think that is why I respect Weaver’s third act so much; it reveals that everything I disliked about 6 Month Rule for the first two acts was purposefully designed that way. I fell into Weaver’s trap, and he certainly deserves some kudos for luring me in.

AUSTIN 2011: DARWIN

2011-10-24T10:29:00.000-07:00

A scene from Darwin.

Mine your business

By Don Simpson

Contrary to my initial assumption, Darwin has absolutely nothing to do with the infamous English naturalist Charles Darwin (On the Origin of Species). Nick Brandestini’s documentary actually refers to the town of Darwin, California (which is named after Darwin French). Located in the desolate nether-regions on the east side of the Sierra Nevada (not too far from Death Valley), the ex-mining community of Darwin boasts a population of 43. Brandestini wrangles 30 or so of Darwin’s residents to tell their tales to his camera and — within minutes — it becomes quite obvious that the secluded locale of Darwin has attracted a very unique and eclectic collection of people. Darwin also touches upon the town’s history, dating back to when Darwin’s mine — as well as its brothels and saloons — was still active (a period of time that at least one resident refers to as the “glory days”).

Brandestini relies heavily upon the townspeople’s wackiness to drive his documentary, and there is no denying their cinematic appeal. It seems as though most (if not, all) Darwinians have come to the desert to hide from something -- whether it be their checkered past, an all-too-judgmental mainstream society, legitimate employment, or life in general. Darwin appears to be a self-imposed penal colony of sorts where its constituents are able to live out a life sentence of self-enforced exile from mainstream society, yet this seclusion simultaneously allows them to enjoy near-absolute freedom. Together they have created a Utopian society of Libertarian proportions in which everyone enjoys their personal freedoms without much judgment from their neighbors or pestering by the police. They expect their government to provide them with the basic necessities of electricity, water and unemployment checks; otherwise the people of Darwin exist as far “off the grid” as humanly possible. With no mayor, city council or local law enforcement to speak of, Darwin’s only form of political hierarchy appears to be a small panel of residents who occasionally gather together to debate the state of their water supply. Apparently all of the townspeople are armed to the gills — and at least half way to crazy — so criminals steer clear of Darwin. Maybe Darwin has evolved beyond Libertarianism, maybe this is a town of anarchists?

AUSTIN 2011: RESTIVE

2011-10-24T10:15:00.000-07:00

Hopper (Conrad Hill) and Jeva (Marianna Palka) in Restive.

Mind mover

By Don Simpson

To be perfectly honest, I might have to watch Restive a few more times before I can adequately comprehend what the heck is going on. But here I am, shortly after my first viewing of the film, attempting to hobble together a coherent review about a film that was so beautifully incoherent to me.

I will start with the puzzle pieces that I do understand. Jeva (Marianna Palka) is stuck in a menacingly terrifying relationship with Lott (Christopher Denham). Together, they have a young son, Hopper (Connor Hill)…and daughter too? Lott has reason to think Jeva has betrayed him. Soon, Jeva and Hopper find themselves running through the woods being chased by two of Lott’s hoodlum buddies, Braker (Michael Mosley) and Roo (Ivan Sandomire). Everything else is either too much of a spoiler to reveal or I need several more repeat viewings to attempt to make sense of it.

The narrative structure of Austin writer-director Jeremiah Jones’ debut feature is hypnotically transcendental, like a fever-speckled lucid dream. The eerily tranquil cinematography by John W. Rutland and soundtrack by Ben Lukas Boysen further accent Jones’ slow and tactful pacing, which intensifies only when the horrible — yet never gratuitous — violence unpredictably creeps into the story. Of course we expect violence to come from the evil patriarch; but it is when his oppressed wife is forced to fight for her life that human and motherly instinct push the narrative into some really dark places.

Personally, I enjoy when a film leaves me dazed and confused, especially when it is a purposeful tactic on behalf of the director in order to intensify the suspense — and this is exactly what Jones does with Restive. Even if confusion is not your ideal state of mind while watching a film, Restive is certainly worth watching for the impressively intense performances by Denham, Connor Hill, Mosley, Palka and Sandomire.