pullquote

Nitrate kisses

Brian over at Hell on Frisco Bay has a nice meditation about seeing films that were meant for the big screen. A taste:

[T]hese days I'm generally not drawn to seeing films that seem to me (perhaps I'm being short-sighted) to be made for DVD or cable TV as much as they're made for theatrical release, no matter how good they're reported to be. I'm much more likely to put a priority on seeing something purely cinematic....
<snip>
The same reasoning draws me to as many revived classic films as I can fit into my viewing schedule. Films made in the era before anyone thought seriously of reducing and broadcasting them to mass audiences can feel like revelations when returned to their natural setting. Such was the case of Singin' in the Rain, which I saw at Palo Alto's Stanford Theatre last weekend. I'd only ever seen it on a television set before, and though I liked it, to be honest I'd never quite grasped why it could be so highly esteemed as to earn a place on so many notable top 10 lists; why it had become perhaps the quintessential Hollywood musical. No wonder; in a way I'd never really seen it! It wasn't just that the vastness of the screen helped me to see details like the broken hairs on Donald O'Connor's bow by the end of "Fit as a Fiddle", or the wrinkle in Cyd Charisse's panty hose when she appears in the "Broadway Melody" sequence. It was that the deep blacks, bright whites and vivid candy store colors emphasized the story's fantastic elements and made me more easily forgive the anti-historical, pro-talkie mythologizing. I was able to dream along with the film.

The cinetrix was fortunate enough to see Lawrence of Arabia for the first time at a revival, on the Wang Center's 60-foot screen. I got there late-ish, and so was right down front, where I had to pan and scan with my eyes to take it all in and could almost look up the camels' nostrils. Later, Joseph Cornell's Rose Hobart would have a similar effect on my synapses, as would The Book of Life, one of being suffused with the limitless possibilities of color, movement, and sheer vastness. Or, as Brian put it, of dreaming along with the film.

What about you? What films have you seen in the theater that reminded you of what was lost when the pictures got small?

Imagine what the cinema of poets could be

New Yorkers, hie thee to Millennium tonight for the sexiest film alive at the Invisible Film Series, co-curated by my pal Jennifer of Invisible Cinema.

The Invisible Film Series
Friday, October 28
Millennium Film Workshop
66 E. 4th St.
8:00 P.M., $7

Our research discoveries on poetry, sound, and cinema:

A daydream suspended in centuries of moonlight dissolves into extralucid surprise.  Amethystine music becomes visible in water droplets. Petals fluoresce, eyes flame, the poetic state requires oxygen to combust. The Sun, the Moon, and the Earth spin in a bizarre love triangle. We have observed the sexiest film alive, and it devours its prey! Common sense is useless. Tomorrow's memories are thrill seeking. For a moment, it is possible to dream the same dream together . . .

APPARITION BEFORE THE EYES-Ambient Slide Projections (Prelude) (1980-Present) by Bradley Eros
BALANCE, RHYTHM, REPETITION (2005) by Kate Balsley, video, color, silent, 3 min
I DREAMT THROUGH THE DISTANCE (2005) by Tim Reardon, video, color, sound, 6 min.
SLEEPING BEAUTY (1922) by Lotte Reiniger, courtesy of Joel Schlemowitz, 16mm, b/w, sound, 10 min
AVIARY, PALLIATION, and ELEGIA, three films by Sheri Wills, 16mm, color, silent, 7 min.
WORKING WITH WATER, DREAMING OF WATER by Stephanie Gray, Super 8, b/w, sound, 4 min.
LITTLE BITS OF SKIN (WORDS) (2005) by Nisi Jacobs, video, color, sound, 8 min.
NEW YORK DIARY by Howard Guttenplan, Super 8, silent, 10 min.
ONE DEAD IN OHIO (2005) by Robert Greene, video, color, sound, 7 min.
RESIST (2005) by Mike Park, video, color, sound, 12 min.
SPAGHETTI FIGHT (work in progress) by Marie Losier, video, color, sound 6 min.
CONDUCTANT 36164.2.2 (2005) video by Andy Graydon, sound by Bill Owen & Andy Graydon, color, 20 min.
THE REAGANS SPEAK OUT ON DRUGS (1988) by Cliff Roth, 16mm, color, sound, 10 min.
POOR WHITE TRASH GIRL by Kelly Spivey, 16mm, color, sound, 8 min
GIRLS DAYDREAM ABOUT HOLLYWOOD (1992) by Jennifer Reeves, 16mm, b/w, sound, 5 min.
LOVE LIFE OF FLOWERS courtesy of Movie Mike, 16mm, color, sound, 15 min.

Wish I could be there. 

Back to Basics

The cinetrix continues to enjoy her hiatus, thanks for asking. I've watched The 40-Year-Old Virgin [in the theatre!] and Lords of Dogtown and might even stir myself to say something about them--someday. I just picked up Pauline Kael's I Lost It at the Movies for the first time, if you can believe that, and two other, newer film books are winging their way to me as I type. Just imagine the nascent superhero off training in exile in some mountain lair before coming back to kick some ass [OK, no fancy overhead shots of militias in colorful regalia running drills, a la early-ish Jet Li flicks], and you get the idea of how I've been beguiling the time.

The good news is that Ed Koch, like rust, never sleeps. The relentless civil servant has two new reviews for you this week. Enjoy!

Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang
This farce is as incoherent as its title, and it left me at the starting gate. I felt embarrassed when I realized that I often had no inkling as to what they were saying or doing or where the gibberish was headed.

Harry Lockhart (Robert Downey Jr.) is a small-time "booster" which is argot for thief and burglar, and Perry (Val Kilmer) is a private detective. Much of the humor is situational and based on the fact that Perry is a homosexual (with the nickname of Gay Perry) and Lockhart is straight. Harry, who has bizarrely become a movie actor, is being taught by Perry to play the role of a detective. They are out to solve an old crime which has intimations of child abuse.

During the movie, which contains lots of slapstick comedy which didn't move me, I heard belly laughs from the audience and many people in the audience applauded loudly when it ended. I, nevertheless, found it impenetrable and did not enjoy it for one moment.

You can see that pullquote now, right? "Impenetrable!--Ed Koch"

Shopgirl
A pleasant evening of entertainment but not worthy of A.O. Scott's New York Times review. He wrote, "Every year, Hollywood cuts yards of so-called romantic comedy from bolts of synthetic cloth. The elegant and exquisitely tailored 'Shopgirl,' written by Steve Martin, based on his slender novel of the same name, and directed by Anand Tucker ("Hilary and Jackie"), puts most of them to shame. As it relates the delicate, almost anecdotal story of a young woman looking for love in modern Los Angeles, the movie reveals what is missing from most others of its kind: the fact of sex and the possibility of heartbreak, which is to say the very conditions of romance itself."

Mirabelle (Claire Danes) works in the glove department at Saks Fifth Avenue. She meets Jeremy (Jason Schwartzman), a salesman and part-time graphic artist, in a Laundromat and ends up in bed with him. Before meeting him, she was well on her way to becoming a depressed spinster.  Her mother, Catherine, is played by Frances Conroy, the wonderful actress who played the role of the mother in the television series, "Six Feet Under." Later on, Mirabelle meets Ray (Steve Martin), a bi-coastal multimillionaire, and the two become lovers.

All three characters are somewhat dysfunctional. Although they long for the companionship that accompanies love, they are unable to give completely of themselves. The first-half hour of dialogue was often sophomoric, often to the point of being dumb, but it improved. The personalities of the three main characters are defined by their consummate acting. No ménage a trois takes place, so to find out who Mirabella chooses, you will have to see the film yourself. The movie clearly appeals to women, based on the comments and applause that I heard from them at the end of the show.

Personally, I would bust Koch for including such a long quotation from Scott's review without giving us his gloss, but it may be I've been grading too many papers lately. Speaking of which...

Alert the twee police

Maurice Sendak's classic children's book Where the Wild Things Are is on its way to the big screen at last. But don't start the wild rumpus just yet. According to the New York Times:

In the project's current incarnation, Spike Jonze, of "Being John Malkovich" fame, will direct, from a screenplay he has written with the novelist Dave Eggers. Mr. Sendak will serve as a producer along with John Carls, in concert with Tom Hanks's Playtone Productions, for Universal Pictures.*

Fuck me. Sendak and three treacle horsemen of the sensitive man-boy apocalypse. That oughta be good. Optimists, I have just three words for you: animatronic "wild things."

*Let me guess: Conor Oberst for the soundtrack?

Julieta y Ramon

If you're in Boston tonight, be sure to swing by the Boston Latino Film Festival and check out Hugo Perez's new film Julieta y Ramon.

JULIETA Y RAMON is the tale of a young woman who finds it hard to meet Mr. Right because of her erotic fixation on Ronald Reagan. And then she meets Ramon... who has his own particular fixation. Can this odd couple find a way to satisfy each other?

The cinetrix met Hugo at Full Frame, and I can assure you that he's full of shit in the best possible way. And I'd say that even if he hadn't introduced me to Walter Mosely.

DATE: Thursday, October 20th, 2005
TIME: 5:00pm
ADMISSION: $10.00
LOCATION: CENTER FOR LATINO ARTS, 85 West Newton Street, Boston, MA

demonlover

Somebody wanna tell me what the fuck that was all about?

Apophenia redux

A little more than two years ago, Pullquote launched as an outlet for a cinetrix in flux. That feeling hasn't changed, but lately I get the feeling other things should and must.

When I started blogging, it was an experiment in sustaining my interest in a single subject, film. I nurtured no dreams of fame or book deals; 2003 was a simpler time in the blogosphere. No, my interest was practical, downright pedestrian. Several years before I had dropped out of a fancy graduate program in cinema studies [I'll give you a hint: It rhymes with Mew Nork Sooniversity], sick and broke, and I had always regretted it. Since then, I had continued to lead my life in film where I could: stints at the Brattle and at a well-regarded video store, subscriptions to geeky academic list-servs, friendships with like-minded souls.

Two years ago, I had finally gotten to the point of investigating what it might take to finish the degree from afar, with the least amount of capital outlay possible. I spoke to administrators, landed an underpublicized community scholarship [Allston-Brighton reprazent!] that paid for a film course at Harvard's extension school with credits that would transfer, came up with a plan to tackle the incompletes, and re-applied to the program I had left so long ago.

I was accepted. Again. No funding at all this time [I had once been a bright young thing, full of promise]. And no advisor to guide my way. But with some more loans and a convenient hole in my freelance schedule, I spent five weeks in the summer of 2004 studying in New York with J Hoberman. Another class down....

Then I moved. And was miserable. And spent the fall in an inert lump. Come the winter, though, I sacked up. Took my comprehensive exam. Bashed out those final three papers by the end of April. And then I waited. And waited. Profs who had not laid eyes on me in years not surprisingly did not leap to read my deathless prose and submit their grades in a timely fashion.

There was Kafka-esque bureaucracy to contend with, too. Although I had had to reapply, the university still wanted "matriculation maintenance" fees for all those semesters I was "out of residence" [aka dropped out]. Trick was, none of the work I did before dropping out would count toward the degree if I didn't play ball. So I played ball [but petitioned and got the fees waived].

On Friday, September 23, my mobile rang with the good news that my degree had, at long last, been conferred, after an ordeal only slightly less tantric than fucking Sting.

Yay, me. But now what? I'm teaching now--not film, not yet [spring 2006]. And I'm writing for money, two things I doubt would have ever happened without this blog. I've met fantastic people, online and in person. My world is a much bigger place.

But a recent litblog shitstorm, as well as the whole degree thing, got me thinking. What am I doing here? No, really. What do I hope to add to the conversation? Snarky remarks about Manohla Dargis? Not really. Calendar listings? Not indiscriminately. Reviews? Shit, I barely have time or energy to blow the dust off the Netflix mailers on top of the television. I barely watch television.

Now that you know the whole story, I'd like to hear your ideas for Pullquote 2.0 because I can't take much more of my self-loathing for mailing it in here. This is your moment for lowercase "d" democracy. Have at it.

And I'm spent. Back whenever.

The last picture show?

Boston Globe film critic Ty Burr throws down with some cinematic history and explains why we should care about the Brattle's continued existence.

The Brattle... has always relied on the kindness of college students, and these days... going to a wonderfully funky old theater with rear-screen projection and seats bolted onto the floorboards of a former social union club isn't part of the equation. Even the handful of 20-something Garbo freaks out there could have watched the movies in the Brattle festival for free last month on Turner Classic Movies or bought the newly released DVD boxed set for keeping.

The bitter irony in all this is that it was students who originally made a success of the Brattle, and it was the Brattle that created the template for the film repertory boom that swept American cities from the late 1950s until the rise of home video. Some history: Built in 1890 to house the Cambridge Social Union, Brattle Hall had been used as a church, an adult education center, a police-department gym, and a stage when Harvard grads Bryant Haliday and Cy Harvey bought it and installed a Trans-Lux rear-projection system in 1952. A few years later, Harvey decided to program a Warner Brothers wartime melodrama during final exams, and when the students in the audience stood to sing along with the ''Marseillaise," the cult of ''Casablanca" and Humphrey Bogart was born.

Harvey had studied at the Sorbonne, and he modeled the Brattle's programming on Henri Langlois's fabled Cinematheque, handpicking old classics and new foreign fare. When he and Haliday couldn't get the films from overseas they wanted, they started a company, Janus Films, to bring breakthroughs from directors such as Bergman, Francois Truffaut, and Federico Fellini into America, distributing them to other movie houses that began to follow the Brattle model.

The cinetrix has long thought about writing a history of the Brattle/Janus and its founders, but she always imagined that would happen while the theatre was still operating. When I worked there, there were still ancient Cannes programs kicking around the office, gorgeous old first-run one-sheets, as well as who knows what other archival material. The history of the Brattle is the history of European art cinema in America, but it is so much more than that, too.

Back to Burr:

Harvard Square has been corporatized into a mass of banks and chain stores, with little of the boho allure of the film-rep glory days. The Brattle increasingly resembles ''The Little House" in Virginia Lee Burton's classic children's book, surrounded by the type of new that sees the old as merely shabby. People move on; the culture moves on. The Brattle may be more relic than survivor.

Inside, of course, the dreams still burn, no matter how marginalized we make them. If you want to see films the way their makers meant them to be seen -- big as hallucinations, shared by a roomful of strangers -- movie theaters are the only way to do that. Not DVDs, not big-screen TVs, certainly not video iPods. If you really want to see ''Lawrence of Arabia," any other venue is an insult to David Lean. And if you want to preserve the Brattle as more than a shrine to boomer nostalgia, there is only one thing to do: Patronize it. Otherwise, don't cry if one day you find that it's gone.

This theatre was the site of too many film firsts for me to list them all, but I'll name a few moments that flicker brightly: seeing Chinatown for the first time for an undergraduate class and walking out staggered; watching A Bout de Souffle on my birthday; shirking office work to see the crisp new print of Hal Hartley's vertiginous DV flick The Book of Life during a press screening; walking behind the screen during the infamous sex scene in Don't Look Now; recognizing the laughter of someone I was in love with, there on a date with another woman, during L'Enfer.

What about you?

Fishwrap

Thank you for coming to Loews. Sit back and relax, and read old news [via]:

Hoping to capture movie audiences to boost shrinking ads, The New York Times will start giving away a pocket-sized movie magazine to each ticket buyer.

The free magazine, OnMovies, will be distributed for now only at Loews Cineplex theaters in the chain's largest markets: New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Boston, San Francisco, Washington, D.C., Dallas and Seattle.

<snip>

The Times said its magazine, about the size of the theater program Playbill, will cover all movies, even flicks showing at competing movie chains.

Stories, reviews and celebrity coverage will be developed or recycled from the newspaper's cultural pages.

The Times will pay Loews chain an undisclosed amount to distribute 1.25 million copies of each issue at box office windows.

<snip>

The first issue will be handed out Dec. 16. The publishing frequency depends on movie release schedules, with some months having two issues, such as February, March, June and October, while other months would have just one issue.

To prevent movie-goers from just discarding the magazine as theater-floor clutter, promotion deals are being developed to encourage readers to take home the magazine.

That could include swapping a magazine or two for an exclusive movie opening gala or free products, which also would give marketers ways to measure the magazine's clout.

Wow, happy birthday to the cinetrix. How ennobling for the critics of the august Gray Lady to have their deathless prose swept up with popcorn and Gummi Bears after every showing of King Kong.

Histoires du cinéma

Good news, New Yorkers. Now you too can catch up with the fabulous documentary Henri Langlois: The Phantom of the Cinémathèque, which the cinetrix saw and reviewed this past April at Full Frame.

It's a good 'un, if a bit sprawling, as befits the man himself. The NYT's Tony Scott has the skinny.

For the first decades of their existence, movies were seen not as works of art deserving preservation but as disposable commodities. Once their run in theaters was finished, prints were tossed into the garbage or left to deteriorate in warehouses. The notion that they might be preserved, collected and studied - the belief that the cinematic record is a vital cultural resource - was in the air by the mid-1930's, but it took the pluck and persistence of a single eccentric Frenchman to make the idea a reality.

Do note that the film appears to have been pared down from 212 minutes to its current run time of 129. Wonder what was lost, and who will save it for future generations [or, most likely, the dvd release]?

Quit reading already. Go see it, then report back.