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Review: Nancy

The interminable first act of Christina Choe’s film does eventually threaten to lead us into resonant territory.




Photo: Samuel Goldwyn Films

The small house at the center of writer-director Christina Choe’s feature-length debut, Nancy, is cramped and disheveled. It’s occupied by Betty (Ann Dowd), whose arm twitches from Parkinson’s disease, and who endlessly pesters her daughter, Nancy (Andrea Riseborough), reading the young woman’s mail, which is kept in an overflowing basket that embodies the discomfort of their lives. Nancy is forever glued to her computer and cellphone, understandably searching for any escape from this existence, while her mother’s face, twisted in gnarls of disappointment, pain, and resentment, is transfixed by the shrill programs that play on an ancient television set.

These stifling details are par for the course of American indie miserablism. When Betty covers herself up with a blanket, of course it’s ratty and hideously colored. When Nancy cooks Betty an egg, of course it’s so dry and unappealing that you can practically taste the tastelessness. When Nancy, an aspiring writer with no discernable point of view, temps at a dentistry office, of course it’s a rathole in a barren strip mall. The film evades every opportunity for offering even the casual, fleeting beauty that can be experienced by the deeply troubled. This is the land of lost souls and broken dreams, and Choe is terrified that you might somehow miss this unmissable information.

Nancy is another inadvertently condescending fantasy of how people who can’t afford to go to film festivals live, and there’s vanity in this boutique art-film brand of hopelessness, which derives from a fetishizing of “keeping it real.” Set in a wintry northeastern region of America, Nancy recalls Kent Jones’s Diane and Paul Schrader’s First Reformed and suffers mightily from the association. Jones and Schrader offer bitter brews that also allow for humor and poetry. For one thing, Jones and Schrader’s characters don’t speak in the self-pitying rasps that are typical of the protagonists of Nancy and other studiously bleak American indie films. Instead, they’re allowed to have opinions that attest to the filmmakers’ understanding that poor people in rural areas are capable of thought and artful expression.

In Nancy, Choe wears her lack of imagination as a badge of aesthetic honor, particularly stranding Riseborough in the process. Following the lead of her director, Riseborough defines Nancy with an incurious set of actor’s tricks. Riseborough’s eyes are seemingly always bugged-out, and she’s often fidgeting and chewing her fingernails and indulging in other bits of business meant to communicate Nancy’s alienation and social ineptitude. Not helping matters is the anti-triumph of make-up design that is Nancy’s hair, which resembles a trapezoidal wig out of the Tim Burton Institute for Melancholy Coifs. Nancy suggests a psycho in a stalker thriller that’s been leeched of thrills and replaced with vague “class commentary.”

The film’s interminable first act—shot in a box ratio so that the audience feels that much more constricted—does eventually threaten to lead us into resonant territory. Nancy becomes convinced that Betty kidnapped her when she was a child, and that her real parents are Ellen (J. Smith-Cameron) and Leo (Steve Buscemi), a prosperous couple still mourning the disappearance of their child 30 years earlier. Ellen and Leo agree to meet Nancy at their home, and the contrast between Nancy’s real life with Betty and her potential life with these nurturing intellectuals is theoretically poignant. The aspect ratio expands to emphasize the roominess of Ellen and Leo’s home, a paradise of an erudite liberal lifestyle. Art lines the warm rooms, and a sumptuous Thanksgiving-style dinner welcomes Nancy upon her arrival. We’ve been whisked away from a horror film into a physicalizing of a cover of Better Homes and Gardens, and your relief will be more palpable than Nancy’s.

But this game of classist compare and contrast doesn’t yield intellectual or emotional fruit. Choe appears to believe that the juxtaposition between the settings inherently proves her point about the inequality gripping American life, which it reductively does, but such an observation doesn’t inherently provide drama. Choe and Riseborough refuse to imagine how this miraculous entrance into another life might affect Nancy internally, as she remains a cipher. Choe doesn’t build any suspense around the question of Nancy’s parentage; we assume from the start that this is a hopeful delusion and await the inevitable, fashionable non-ending. Choe takes her central conceit and fills it with a pointed and insipid nothingness, as Nancy impassively mopes in a rarefied setting and leaves after an arbitrary amount of time has elapsed.

Smith-Cameron and Buscemi transcend Nancy’s gimmicky austerity, their heartrending naturalism serving as an oasis from Dowd and Riseborough’s caricatures. We feel protective of Ellen and Leo, praying that Nancy isn’t their daughter, which is to say that Choe puts us in the weird position of hoping that Nancy returns to her pat little hell so that we may be rid of her. Perhaps Nancy is mining uncomfortably truthful class terrain after all.

Cast: Andrea Riseborough, Ann Dowd, Steve Buscemi, J. Smith-Cameron, John Leguizamo, Samrat Chakrabarti Director: Christina Choe Screenwriter: Christina Choe Distributor: Samuel Goldwyn Films Running Time: 87 min Rating: NR Year: 2018 Buy: Video



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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