In the beginning, a wee cinetrix read much more about films than she watched 'em. Granted, a fair bit of this reading was capsules in T.V. Week [or Hot Dots] describing movies on channels we didn't get or at times that wouldn't fly with the 'rents, but still. To this day there are certain flicks I know the plots/stars of but am uncertain I actually, you know, saw. And I won't even get into the movie reviews of movies playing in far-away Boston, as opposed to my local theater.
Which is a round-about way of introducing a great piece from my hometown paper's current co-critic, Wesley Morris. The title says it all: A black hole: African-Americans are blazing creative trails in music, TV, and stage. In film, the choice is either bawdy and preachy or earnest but safe - with a void in between.
It doesn't do any good to discount the value of Tyler Perry, and he certainly can't be - should not be - ignored. Perry knows what an audience wants, and he delivers - with Woody Allen's regularity, too. These things tend to come in waves (remember the Wayans brothers' racial funhouses from a few years ago?). But Perry is more than a ripple. He is black movies right now. His style has inspired studio executives to look, wittingly or not, for movies with either Perry's clumsy farce (see last winter's "The Perfect Holiday" or "First Sunday" - on second thought: don't) or his ensemble comic-melodrama ("This Christmas").
That's a problem. There's no art in these movies. There's no style. And Perry's success, through no fault of his own, limits what chances the studios are willing to take on black movies. Rickety ghetto comedies, prefab movie biographies, and feel-good historical dramas tailor-made for NAACP Image Award contention are one thing. But a serious, thoughtful act of filmmaking or some real Hollywood glamour is rare.
Can I get an amen?
Just as pleasing and tons more snarky fun is the Variety review by Leslie Felperin of Phillippe Garrel's latest, La Frontiere de L'aube. Comment dit-on "Fasten your seatbelts"? Here's a bit of the bitchery:
Just when pic appears to have settled for being just banal and tedious, it gets silly. Carole starts appearing in Francois' dreams and mirrors (her entrance is heralded at one point by a clang of doom that would have suited a 1930s horror pic), asking him to join her in the land of the dead. A sensible friend (Cedric Vieira) tries to persuade him it's just his subconscious sense of guilt producing hallucinations, but the stupid twit is tempted to rejoin his demon lover.
And that's before Felperin busts out with "cack-handed," which I vow to work into more conversations. Even the tech specs don't get any love.
Monochrome lensing by William Lubtchansky apes New Wave grain and contrast, and looks nice the same way ads for men's aftershave can look good.
Somewhere Victor Kayam is smiling. The cinetrix sure is.
*Two bits! What, you thought I would leave you hanging?
