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Review: Minding the Gap

Bing Liu masterfully uses his insider’s access, managing to stay inside and outside of the material at once.




Minding the Gap

In the documentary Minding the Gap, director Bing Liu communicates a fierce urge to break free of the suffocating strictures of poverty, family, social expectation, and the self-loathing these pressures inevitably forge. Filming his childhood friends for years in his violent, unemployment-racked hometown of Rockford, Illinois, Liu makes strikingly little pretense of possessing distance from his subjects. The film is driven, in fact, by his need for distance. Largely remaining behind the camera, Liu renders himself an omniscient narrator as well as a guidance counselor and, ultimately, a ghost. Subconsciously responding to Liu’s quest for distance, his friends open up to him in fashions that are startling in their intimacy and self-awareness.

Liu opens the film on his friends, Zack and Keire, as they execute breathtaking skateboard stunts, his camera following them with a propulsive fluidity. A skateboarder himself, Liu understands that such daredevilry isn’t undertaken simply for potential fame, but so as to enjoy the intricacies of process that are required of mastery. To commit oneself to such intricacies is to achieve temporary escape from chaos as well as to find an everyday meaning in life. This painstaking quality links daredevils to artists. Or, as Zack says: “In reality, I think it’s a control thing. You fuckin’ have to control the most minute, small details to make you feel normal in a world that’s not normal.”

Zack and Keire’s stunts—executed on ramps, stairways, and any other surface that catches their fancy—are action scenes that are imbued with the gravity of the participants’ youth, revelry, and need to prove themselves. In other words, these scenes are viscerally connected to the emotional tempos of the subjects—a claim that can be made of few modern action films. Occasionally, we’ll see Liu, most notably in flashbacks taken from footage shot when the subjects were children, and witness his similar sense of daring. Also, we sometimes see Liu filming Zack and Keire on the streets, fashioning dynamic set pieces with little in the way of production apparatus. With a handheld camera, Liu dives into the action, his adventurousness as a cinematographer inseparable from his fearlessness as a skateboarder. These glimpses of Liu also poignantly serve as his way of saying that Zack and Keire’s story is his own. Gradually, the skateboarding sequences give way to emotional confessions that reveal the fears driving Zack, Keire, Liu, and their respective families.

Zack is white, Keire is African-American, and Liu is Chinese-American, and the filmmaker is conscious of these cultural differences while parsing the heartbreaking similarities of these backgrounds. Despite their varied heritage, everyone in the film is mutually American of course, and this domestic identity is built, in these cases, on legacies of suppression and familial abuse that are exacerbated by financial hardship. All the film’s subjects are from broken families and were beaten as children by their fathers or father figures, and each of the film’s three central men wear this anger in a differing manner.

Zack, a new father himself, is an abuser, occasionally hitting his girlfriend, Nina, when they argue over their son. An intelligent, handsome, and tortured alcoholic, Zack appears to be the ladies’ man of the group, his violent energies exuding an erotic pull that’s traditional of bad boys. Keire and Liu are more passive than Zack, with no apparent romantic lives, yet Minding the Gap reveals them to be stronger, more self-interrogating, and more resourceful than their friend. Haunted by his father, Keire struggles to find an identity after high school, accepting a grueling dishwashing job at a restaurant. And Liu, of course, is making this film, growing obsessed by Zack’s abuse of Nina, which mirrors the abuse he and his mother weathered by his stepfather.

Liu interviews his friends, as well as Nina, his mother, and Keire’s mother, and the filmmaker has a talent for asking forbidden questions without losing the trust of his subjects. Zack and Liu’s mother, who each have perpetuated, suffered, or tolerated abuse, are hauntingly unwilling to make excuses for themselves, as they respect Liu enough not to ply him with justifications. When pressed with a question that’s traditionally asked of abused women—“Why do you put up with it?”—Nina obligatorily takes refuge in Zack’s good qualities, defending her man, though she learns to fend for herself. When Liu asks Nina’s permission to talk to Zack about their fighting, he’s clearly attempting to help her but also to implicitly atone for his and his mother’s own suffering, as well as his own complicity in abuse for tolerating Zack. Keire’s mother also haunts the film as another deflated matriarch, her love for Keire tempered with guilt and concern for his emotional scars.

Throughout Minding the Gap, Liu masterfully uses his insider’s access, managing to stay inside and outside of the material at once. Though his film ends on several notes of qualified optimism, Liu understands that the catharsis for which he yearns is illusory. Yet there is skateboarding, art, and love for these people, which offer a perpetually tantalizing hope of completion that springs from a promise of purpose and belonging.

Director: Bing Liu Distributor: Magnolia Pictures Running Time: 93 min Rating: NR Year: 2018



Review: Never Fear Is Driven by Its Maker’s Personal Demons

If the film ultimately seems to question Carol’s courage, there’s at least no doubt about Ida Lupino’s own.



Never Fear
Photo: Eagle-Lion Films/Photofest

In a 1985 interview with DeeDee Halleck conducted at the Chelsea Hotel, filmmaker Shirley Clarke stated that she made films about African-Americans as a way of working through her own ambivalence about being a woman in a male-dominated culture: “I identified with black people because I couldn’t deal with the woman question and I transposed it. I could understand very easily the black problems, and I somehow equated them to how I felt….I always felt alone, and on the outside of the culture that I was in.” One can detect a similar tendency in the work of Ida Lupino, whose independently produced dramas of the 1940s and ‘50s tackled hot-button issues such as rape, bigamy, and unwanted pregnancy. These films are no mere homilies on contemporary social problems, but complex and deeply personal explorations of what it means to be an independent woman in a world ruled by men.

Lupino’s pioneering work is suffused with a profound sense of alienation and self-doubt. Her films are about people whose conventional middle-class existence is suddenly, sometimes violently, upturned, causing them to feel completely unmoored. No longer sure of where they’re going in life or what they truly want, these people find respite away from their old life, in an unfamiliar place with a new potential lover. And Lupino tells these stories with an empathy that’s striking for its directness and lack of condescension.

Such is the case with the first film Lupino directed completely on her own, Never Fear, an emotionally complex drama about a young dancer, Carol (Sally Forrest), who seems to have it all, as she’s just gotten engaged to her partner, Guy (Keefe Brasselle), and their careers are on the verge of taking off. But then, all of sudden she’s stricken with polio, and everything changes. Carol, depressed and bitter, enters a rehab facility where she eventually makes strides toward walking again, thanks in part to the inspiration of a hunky fellow patient named Len (Hugh O’Brian). As Carol struggles with her own will to get better, she grows increasingly distant from Guy, urging him to keep pursuing his dancing career rather than settling down into a conventional job selling pre-fab “Happy Homes” as he waits around for her to recover.

Free of the noir-ish inflections Lupino brought to her other films—most notably The Hitch-Hiker, and the rape sequence in OutrageNever Fear is directed in a simple, straightforward style that bears comparison to the stripped-down neorealism of Roberto Rossellini. Lupino is captivated by the process of physical rehabilitation, offering detailed observations of Carol’s stretching routine, swim therapy, art classes, and, in one show-stopping sequence, a square dance featuring lines of wheelchair-bound patients twirling each other around in consummately choreographed synchrony. Carol is clumsy and awkward as she struggles to operate her wheelchair, a marked contrast to the film’s opening scenes, in which Carol and Guy move together with lithe sophistication as they perform a romantic swashbuckling tango.

Never Fear’s subject matter was personal for Lupino, who survived polio after an attack in 1934. But the filmmaker isn’t merely interested in the physical ailment itself, but also in the complicated pressure that recovery places on Carol. There’s a tension in the film, which was released at the height of the U.S. polio outbreak, between what Carol wants and what the men in her life want for her. When Carol begins to reject her own treatment, it’s in part because she’s rebelling against the expectations that her doctor, her fellow patients, and especially Guy have placed on her. “Be a woman for me,” Guy asks of her, but the demand is counter-productive, as Carol can only truly recuperate when she decides to do it for herself.

In Carol’s dilemma, one can sense Lupino wrestling with her own artistic ambitions, coming to grips with the reality that as the only woman director working within the Hollywood studio system in the ‘50s, she too would have to accept the guidance of the men around her, and in so doing she would be forced to bear the weight of their expectations for her—their demands, hopes, dreams, and pity. Unfortunately, Never Fear closes with a cop-out, a last-minute reconciliation that cheapens Carol’s hard-fought struggle to learn to live on her own terms by suggesting she’s fundamentally lost without a man. Almost as if the film is embarrassed by its own denouement, the final screen assures us, “This is not THE END. It is just the beginning for all those of faith and courage.” If the film ultimately seems to question Carol’s courage, there’s at least no doubt about Lupino’s own. Never Fear wasn’t the end for her either, but merely the start of one of the most unique and pathbreaking directorial careers in Hollywood history.

Cast: Sally Forrest, Keefe Brasselle, Hugh O’Brian, Eve Miller, Lawrence Dobkin, Rita Lupino, Herbert Butterfield, Kevin O’Morrison, Stanley Waxman, Jerry Hausner, John Franco Director: Ida Lupino Screenwriter: Ida Lupino, Collier Young Running Time: 82 min Rating: NR Year: 1950

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WATCH: Stylish Queer Short Film Stay Makes Its Online Premiere

Brandon Zuck’s sexy and stylish gay thriller Stay debuts for free online.



Brandon Zuck

Writer-director Brandon Zuck’s sexy and stylish gay thriller Stay made its premiere on the film festival circuit back in 2013, but the L.A.-based filmmaker is finally debuting it for free online. The short film, which Zuck claims is loosely based on events from his past, follows Ash (Brandon Harris) and his ex-boyfriend, Jacks (Julian Brand), on a road trip to the Florida Keys where the pair get mixed up in a fatal drug deal.

“I think maybe I was holding onto the film because it’s such a part of me,” Zuck says about his decision to release Stay on YouTube, which has been criticized by queer creators and organizations like GLAAD for ever-changing content guidelines that appear to target content made by and for LGBT people.

“YouTube started age-restricting my other LGBT films and—to be totally honest—I got furious. YouTube is this faceless behemoth and there’s nothing someone like me can do to fight any of it directly. Really the only thing I could think of was just putting more queer content out there. And Stay was sitting right there on my desktop where it’s always been. So I just hit upload. And it got age-restricted. C’est la vie. Next.”

Watch Stay below:

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Review: The Resonant Tito and the Birds Wants Us to Reject Illusion

The Brazilian animated feature offers relief from the impersonal assault of contemporary pop culture.




Tito and the Birds
Photo: Shout! Factory

In several ways, Gabriel Bitar, André Catoto, and Gustavo Steinberg’s Tito and the Birds offers relief from the impersonal assault of contemporary pop culture. Instead of the sanitized, disposably “perfect” computer animation that gluts children’s TV shows and films, Tito and the Birds weds digital technology with oil painting, abounding in hallucinatory landscapes that casually morph to reflect the emotions of the narrative’s protagonists. This Brazilian animated feature has the warm, handmade quality of such adventurous modern children’s films as Henry Selick’s Coraline and Mark Osborne’s The Little Prince.

Tito and the Birds’s artisanal tactility is also inherently political, as it invites consumers or consumers-in-training not to mindlessly gobble jokes, plot, and branding opportunities by the yard, but to slow down and contemplate the sensorial experience of what they’re watching. For instance, it can be difficult to recall now that even middling Disney animated films of yore once seemed beautiful, and that the studio’s classics are ecstatic explosions of neurotic emotion. These days, Disney is in the business of packaging hypocritically complacent stories of pseudo-empowerment, which are viscerally dulled by workmanlike aesthetics that deliberately render our consumption painless and unmemorable.

In this climate, the wild artistry of Tito and the Birds amounts to a bucket of necessary cold water for audiences. Throughout the film’s shifting landscapes, one can often discern brushstrokes and congealed globs of paint, which are deliberate imperfections that underscore painting, and by extension animation, as the endeavors of humans. And this emphasis on the humanity of animation underscores the fulfilling nature of collaborative, rational, nurturing community, which is also the theme of the film’s plot.

Like the United States and much of Europe, Brazil is falling under the sway of far-right politics, which sell paranoia as justification for fascism, and for which Tito and the Birds offers a remarkably blunt political allegory. The world of this narrative is gripped by a disease in which people are paralyzed by fright: In terrifying images, we see arms shrinking and eyes growing wide with uncomprehending terror, until the bodies curl up into fleshy, immobile stones that are the size of a large knapsack. Characters are unsure of the cause of the “outbreak,” though the audience can discern the culprit to be the hatred spewing out of a Fox News-like TV channel, which sells an illusion of rampant crime in order to spur people to buy houses in expensive communities that are fenced in by bubbles. Resonantly, the network and real estate are owned by the same rich, blond sociopath.

Ten-year-old Tito (Pedro Henrique) is a bright and sensitive child who’s traumatized by the disappearance of his father, a scientist who sought to build a machine that would reconnect humankind with birds. Like his father, Tito believes that birds can save the world from this outbreak of hatred, and this evocatively free-associative conceit underscores the hostility that far-right parties have toward the environment, which they regard as fodder for hunting grounds, plunder-able resources, and parking lots. In a heartbreakingly beautiful moment, a pigeon, a working-class bird, begins to sing, and its song resuscitates Tito’s friend, also pointedly of a lower class than himself, from a frozen state of fear and hopelessness.

As the birds come to sing their song, the landscapes lighten, suggesting the emotional and cultural transcendence that might occur if we were to turn off our TVs, phones, and laptops more often and do what the recently deceased poet Mary Oliver defined as our “endless and proper work”: pay attention—to ourselves, to others, to the wealth of other life we take for granted and subsequently fail to be inspired by. Inspiration has the potentiality to nullify fear, but it doesn’t sell as many action figures as the frenetic velocity of embitterment and violence.

Cast: Pedro Henrique, Marina Serretiello, Matheus Solano, Enrico Cardoso, Denise Fraga, Matheus Nachtergaele Director: Gabriel Bitar, André Catoto, Gustavo Steinberg Screenwriter: Eduardo Benaim, Gustavo Steinberg Distributor: Shout! Factory Running Time: 73 min Rating: NR Year: 2018

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