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Johnny, Are You Queer?

Happy National Coming Out Day, everyone. Pour some out for Vito and watch your favorite homoriffic movie* tonight with someone you love.

*suggestions welcome.

Coast to coast

Allow the cinetrix to take a moment to shine a light on two newish [or new to me] film blogs.

Working geographically from left to right, there's Hell on Frisco Bay, which directs its usher's flashlight at the "remaining movie houses of the San Francisco Bay area." Proprietor Brian has a nice post on Les Blank's New Orleans doc Always for Pleasure, which notes that "[a] camera closely observing seeing huge quantities of ingredients being prepared for a celebratory feast has become almost a trademark Les Blank pleasure." There's also a heads up on the upcoming, envy-provoking 4th Annual Noir City Film Festival, programmed by Anita Monga [late of the Castro].

And on the right coast, it gives me special pleasure to single out Invisible Cinema: living experimental film and video, which is run by an amazingly talented dear old friend, who's a filmmaker, a natural blogger, and the model of someone who works to live. Nowhere else can you read about the avant garde film scene in New York, filmmaking's connections to quantum physics, and links to Appollinaire on film in 1914.

Here's an excerpt from one of my favorite recent posts, notes from working with the optical printer:

Flower in shadow, butterfly, 2nd butterfly, 3rd butterfly, pink flower, water lily-yellow, three flowers, flower & dragonfly, slo-mo dragonfly, abstract pink flowers, pink & yellow flower, yellow water lily & reflection, leaves, daisies, bee & purple flower, white butterfly, light pink big water lily, hot pink flowers, big red flower, two small pink flowers, wide angle trees, wide angle person, close-up pink flowers, white flowers, more white flowers, cherry blossoms, superlight magnolias, dust!, pink flowers in branches, fish, just leaves, exotic looking flower, 2nd exotic looking flower, blue, bunch of pink
flowers . . .

Duck into the Invisible Cinema early and often. [The cinetrix would say so even if she hadn't starred in her pal's first foray into silent 16mm, a billion years ago when dinosaurs roamed the earth.]

Guilty as charged

What does it mean when three of the four films writer Matt Feeney cites in his Slate article on guilty pleasures top the list for the cinetrix as well? Eeesh. Best not to dwell, although it sounds like I probably should be slinging Double Jeopardy into the ol' rental queue. [Imagine, an Ashley Judd woman-in-peril flick without Morgan Freeman. Is that even legal? I thought that pairing was as immutable as the 180-degree rule. Shows what I know.]

The quality the cinetrix enjoys most about this variety of Slate article is the precision involved in defining terms.

First, a guilty pleasure should induce guilt. It must be neither overtly satirical nor so bad that it can be enjoyed ironically. Satire is its own alibi for a movie's trashy subject matter, and irony, on the other hand, is the viewer's. So, neither Heathers (satire) nor Showgirls (so bad it's good) qualifies as a guilty pleasure. Guilty pleasures tend to operate on the low end of high concept. They usually feature at least one narrative gimmick or ludicrous plot twist, and, at some point, they ditch narrative coherence for the sake of titillation.

Secondly, a guilty pleasure must be a pleasure. I enjoy them as much as I enjoy my favorite "serious" films. And because of their hyper-vivid production values, I can get pleasure from guilty pleasures in circumstances—fatigue, distraction, inebriation—where I can't really give Renoir or Buñuel chin-in-hand attention. This essay, in other words, is a qualified defense of studio filmmaking. Lush sets, beautiful people, exotic locations expensively shot … studio films offer the heightened reality that people have always sought in their trips to the movie house. Or so I tell myself.

Right there with you, pal. Mmmmm... production values.....

Somewhat related to this is a neologism coined by Entertainment Weekly critic Owen Gleiberman this week in his review of Two for the Money. See, it's a Loud Voice Al movie--"the latest of Al Pacino's dark-suited-dad-figures-who-can't-stop-shouting extravaganzas"--a genre unto itself. You know, like The Devil's Advocate. Or that "Hoo-hah" one I can't abide.

Anyway, with Yom Kippur nearly upon us, it's time to atone for your sins against the g-d of cap "C" Cinema. 'Fess up. Admit to your guilty pleasures--whether in the Loud Voice Al genre or another--in the comments. I'll go first.

My Best Friend's Wedding. Yeah, I said it. Now it's your turn.

Public service announcement

...something slant called the cinetrix's attention to a looming fiscal crisis at art house institution the Brattle Theatre in Cambridge.

According to the press release, the Brattle must raise $400K this year or cease repertory programming all together. [Read the whole thing here.] This would constitute, to my mind, a fucking travesty.

Yes, even rep houses must be competitive in the marketplace, but the much commented-upon phenomenon of dwindling attendence numbers this year cuts deeper at the independent art house than it does at the multiplex. Rep theatres actually make their nut with admissions; chains do it by super-sizing their concessions prices.

There are any number of cinemaphile-friendly items for sale in a variety of price ranges that will help support the Brattle [find them here], or you can donate cash money. The Brattle is a non-profit, so the arts and your accountant will thank you.

As for those in Cambridge and environs, consider a night out at the Brattle in the coming weeks. You can peruse the calendar here. If you haven't been in a while, rest assured that all the seats were replaced a few years back. No more spring-related tetanus shots! The butter on the popcorn is real, and there's Toblerone and Toscanini's ice cream to be had.

Don't want to deal with Harvard Square parking? The cinetrix understands. Take the T or consider locking up your bike to one of the city-supplied posts out front, the cinetrix's lasting contribution to this Cambridge institution during her year as operations manager.

Give til it hurts, people.

It's a lulu

The cinetrix loves herself a good Polish film poster as much as the next cineaste, but this one, especially, spoke to her today.

And with that, I'm off to administer some midterms. More later.

Desire

Once upon a time a girl named Cassandra lived on Abundance Street in a place called Desire.

It sounds like a fairy tale, right? But Desire is a housing project in New Orleans' Lower Ninth Ward. [And not just any project, Desire was one of the most infamous failures in American public housing until it was razed.] And 15-year-old Cassandra's life doesn't allow for fairy tales. What she has is a plan. A good student and a proud member of the marching band, she plans to graduate high school, join the service, then go to college for engineering.

One thing that's definitely not in her plan is having a baby.

Filmmaker Julie Gustafson originally came to Desire to make a documentary on the increasing normalization of teen pregnancy in underserved African-American communities. What she hadn't counted on was the tough matriarchy that ran the project, many of them former teen mothers themselves. These women had been studied six ways to Tuesday by a revolving cast of sociologists for so long that they'd gotten wise. And media savvy. You wanna film in Desire? Well, the Desire Area Group of activists wants to know what the community gets in return. Improvising, Gustafson offered to give free video classes to any girl who was interested, signed contracts with those girls who were then included in her documentary, and drew up royalty agreements.

Out of the Desire mothers' demands blossomed an idea. Why not give these video classes to other girls in different parts of New Orleans? And thus the documentary Desire, which the cinetrix saw in a sneak preview, was born. Soon Cassandra's story is joined with that of Tiffanie from Belle Chasse, a teen mom who has married the baby's father, Lee; Peggy, a first generation Chinese American at prestigious private school Newman; her classmate Tracy, whose parents expect nothing less than perfection; and Kimeca, like Cassandra, a resident of Desire and a teen mother of two who can't seem to stay in school.

Gustafson ultimately followed the girls for five years and worked on the film for 10. The resulting portraits are fascinating and heartbreaking. Straight-ahead doc footage of the various girls navigating their late teens is punctuated with excerpts from the girls' own short films about their desires.  In one called "Boredom," Cassandra reveals that despite all her ambitious plans, she has become pregnant with neighborhood no-account Delvin's child. Seventeen-year-old Tiffanie struggles in her marriage and draws up rules. Number 3 is "Don't take Lee's shit." Kimeca tries to complete the 10th grade--again--but keeps missing classes to deal with her little boy's medical conditions.

Against the struggles of the teen moms, Newman students Peggy and Tracy could come off as lucky and a little whiny, but their desires and their feelings are no less real, no less valid. Tracy, especially, spoke to the cinetrix when she bucked her family and class expectations and worked at a video store rather than head off to a prestigious college. But Cassandra and Tiffanie are the ones who'll haunt your dreams.

As you can imagine, watching this film in the wake of the hurricane meant that the tears were never far from the surface. The girls were due to appear at the New Orleans Film Festival for a sneak preview last month, but now they, and indeed the filmmaker herself [her newly bought house submerged, she is currently bunking with old pal Barbara Kopple in Soho], have been scattered to the four winds.

According to Gustafson, the film may debut at the AFI in Los Angeles soon. Let's hope so. Despite its at times tendentious old school documentary approach to teen pregnancy, the film should be seen, if only to provide a counternarrative to the images of despair emanating from the Gulf over the past five weeks. Hell, put the Desire Area Group in charge of rebuilding--I don't think there's anything those women can't do.

Desire will be distributed by Women Make Movies.

Double shot

With this double installment of Koch on cinema [hard "c"], we find Hizzoner taking on violence, the Holocaust, higher education, you name it. All in a day's work for the tireless civil servant.

A History of Violence
This is a B-film with a B-script and B-acting. Nevertheless, it is entertaining and worth seeing.

The storyline is interesting, although it doesn't have the tension that I expected and hoped for, and the dialogue is occasionally awkward. The use of a highly improbable rape scene is clearly intended to get your mind off the film's shortcomings.

Tom (Viggo Mortensen) lives in a small Indiana town where he operates a luncheonette. He and his wife, Edie (Maria Bello), have a daughter about five years old, Sarah (Heidi Hayes), and a teenage son, Jack (Ashton Holmes), who may or may not be gay.

Tom becomes a local hero when he stops a robbery at the diner, and the remainder of the story revolves around whether he is simply a small town guy or in fact a crime figure from Philadelphia on the run. William Hurt, who portrays a Philadelphia gangster by the name of Richie, is atrocious in this film. His seeking to convey an effeminacy and lack of education exhibited in his speech makes no sense.

"A History of Violence" does not deserve the rave reviews it received like that of Kenneth Turan, who wrote in the Los Angeles Times, that the film "is a ticking time bomb of a movie, a gripping, incendiary, casually subversive piece of work that marries pulp watchability with larger concerns without skipping a beat. It's a tightly controlled film about an out-of-control situation: the predilection for violence in America and how that affects both individuals and the culture as a whole." However, it is better than many movies out there and an available port in this current storm of dreary and inane flops.

Any port in a storm, eh, Ed? Well, he likes Liev's shetl story.

Everything Is Illuminated
This unusually tender, sensitive and moving story is beautifully crafted in its dialogue and is superbly acted.

The film opens with the grandmother of Jonathan (Elijah Wood) dying in the United States. At her bedside are several artifacts and photographs, one of whom is of his deceased grandfather. Jonathan decides to return to the Ukraine, formerly part of the Soviet Union, to seek out the small hamlet from which his deceased grandfather came.

In the Ukraine, Jonathan hires a family in the business of driving and guiding American Jewish families throughout that country in search of their roots. He wants them to help him search for the hamlet which no one can recall. Although the grandfather (Boris Leskin) of this hired dysfunctional family is a taxi driver, he claims that he is blind. He refers to his dog, named Sammy Davis Junior, Junior, as his "seeing eye bitch." The grandfather speaks Ukrainian and the English translations by his grandson, Alex (Eugene Hutz), are often hilarious. The hamlet is finally found in the person of an old woman, Lista (Laryssa Lauret), one of the survivors whom we learn through flashbacks was present when the Nazis killed the town's Jewish population. She is a spectacular actress, reminiscent of actresses in the old silent films.

I was urged to see this film by my non-Jewish law partner, AC, and I am glad that I did. You will either love it, as I did, or be totally bored because of the sometimes bizarre actions or lack of action, particularly in the first half hour of the movie. Elijah Wood with his set gaze and expression does a remarkable job in his role.

A non-Jewish law partner? O brave new world!

And from last week, Ed takes on crime and the life of the mind. He's not quite grokking Alex de la Iglesia, an acquired taste, to be sure. [The cinetrix is quite fond of El Dia de la Bestia, if you must know.]

El Crimen Perfecto [pssst, IMDb, it's "Perfecto," not "Ferpecto"]
I expected to like this film after reading several good reviews, e.g., Kevin Thomas wrote in the Los Angeles Times that "The Spanish have been masters of sly black comedy, and 'El Crimen Perfecto' (The Perfect Crime) is a splendid example."

The movie, which takes place in Spain, is on occasion reminiscent of the Marx Brothers and Fellini films, but it is not up to the standards of either in terms of slapstick or surrealism. At times it becomes too gross, and it is definitely too long.

The script had great promise as it unfolded. Rafael (Guillermo Toledo) is the head salesman in the woman's department of a store. He is adored by the saleswomen in the shop and has sexual moments with near all of them except for Lourdes (Monica Cervera) whom he views as ugly.  Lourdes, who is certainly not physically attractive, loves Rafael.

Rafael is vying with the head of the men’s department, Don Antonio (Luis Varela), for the position of floor manager. In the course of a fight an accidental homicide occurs, and Don Antonio dies except to reappear in surreal moments of comedy that do not measure up to the Marx Brothers or Fellini’s magic.

How the homicide is covered up and revealed, how Lourdes gets her immediate and later revenge in the final scene is central to this movie. If I had known when I entered the theater what I know now, I would not have entered.

Finally, Gwyneth Paltrow is no Russell Crowe. Ah, but who is?

Proof
This film is interesting and worth seeing, but it is not a blockbuster.

I became familiar with the plot of "Proof" when I saw the play on Broadway starring Anne Heche, who was terrific in the role of Catherine. Gwyneth Paltrow, who portrays Catherine in the film, gives a fine but different performance as well.

Catherine is the daughter of Robert (Anthony Hopkins) a professor at the University of Chicago who is suffering from a mental illness which is never explicitly defined. He is in and out of delusions and never leaves his home. Catherine, a graduate student in mathematics, returned to her father's home some years ago to care for him.

The professor still has students who visit him, one of whom is Hal (Jake Gyllenhaal), who is very interested in the professor's research. The "Proof" in the title refers to the written proof needed to establish that Robert has solved an outstanding math problem. Hal finds that proof in a drawer to which he has been given access by Catherine and the question is, did the father or daughter find the solution?

A romance develops between Catherine and Hal. Catherine's insensitive but caring sister, Claire (Hope Davis), returns home to take Catherine permanently back to New York. The time shifts with flashbacks. When the film opens, Robert has already died and his funeral is in the offing.

The acting is fine and the script is interesting, but I was never enveloped to a point of bonding with anyone in the film. For me, the relationship between Catherine and her father never quite takes off, and her intimacy with Hal lacks depth and passion. A similar and far better film is "A Beautiful Mind" starring Russell Crowe, who portrays a brilliant professor losing his mind to psychosis. HS, with whom I saw the film, suggests that for people fascinated by complex equations, "Good Will Hunting" with Matt Damon is the film to see. All three depict fine schools. "Proof" is set at the University of Chicago, "Mind" at Princeton, and "Hunting" at MIT.

 

Grace note

As an avowed music-in-movies geek, the cinetrix naturally has a soft spot in her black heart for some of Cameron Crowe's flicks. [We're really hoping Elizabethtown doesn't suck.] So you can imagine her delight at this little item, culled from an interview by Charles Bottomley:

One of the things that happened early on in this movie was rediscovering Harold and Maude. Cat Stevens' "Don't Be Shy" plays at the very beginning and it's the perfect counterpoint to the guy who is attempting suicide. It's like the movie is blessed from that point on because it casts a spell. It's funny because we started our movie in a graveyard, and [Harold and Maude] starts that way, too. And our sound guy was like the PA on Harold and Maude! I played "Don't Be Shy" at the graveyard the first day we were filming, and nobody got it. Then he came up to me and said, "I noticed that. Nice." Spoken like a true soundman.

Mmmmm...understated sound guys.

Read former rock journalist Crowe on director Crowe's movies in a recent LA Times article here.

Ceci n'est pas une pipe.

Noted without comment:

STUDIOS FOR BUSH
IS the New York Times' chief movie critic, A. O. "Tony" Scott, seeing right-wing bogeymen? "The myth of a monolithically liberal Hollywood is dead," Scott wrote in a Sept. 25 piece noting Hollywood studios "have tried to strengthen their connection with religious and social conservatives," especially in the wake of Mel Gibson's stunning success with "The Passion of the Christ." Scott says a Republican agenda is visible in everything from "Team America" to "The Island," the Michael Bay summer flop which, Scott says, "argues the [George] Bush administration's position on stem cell research." Commentators like online movie biz columnist David Poland aren't so sure. "Put down the pipe, Tony," Poland advised.

What, like the back of a Volkswagen?

Well, I'll be buggered.

Respect must be paid to Manohla Dargis of the New York Times for her elegant namecheck of Lawrence v. Texas in a review of the Jessica Alba scuba picture Into the Blue. You read that right.

This undiluted nonsense is best suited to DVD-rental desperation. Still, aficionados of cheap cinematic thrills involving beautiful and stupid young people will be happy to learn that while the film fizzles far more than it sizzles, its director, John Stockwell, is a connoisseur of the female backside, which he displays to great and frequent advantage. Ms. Alba elicits most of Mr. Stockwell's attention: he films her posterior as worshipfully as George Cukor filmed Garbo's face. But it is Ms. Scott, as the resident bad girl, who is the focus of one of the most startling images in recent memory: a shot of her from the P.O.V. of someone about to engage in an act that, until a 2003 Supreme Court decision, was banned in half the states in the country.

Now that's entertainment.

I'll say.