âBeing Catholic means having imagination!â the poet-novelist Gerard Reve replies to a book-club questioner whoâs asked how one can still be Catholic in the face of modern science. And Reve ought to know. Heâs a walking hotbed of hallucination. Catholic, homosexual, alcoholic, and a poet, Reve is a perfect storm of psychic and emotional tensions, a human recipe for hysteria.
I donât know just how autobiographical Reveâs celebrated novel De Vierde Man was, but he named his character after himself and told his story in the first person. Itâs the story of an alcoholic writer, trapped in a mutually-abusive homosexual relationship, whose life changes dramatically when he journeys to another city to address a literary society. He ends up staying with one of the officers of the club, the delectable temptress Christina Halslaag. She runs a salon called SPHINX, advertised by a defective neon sign that changes its name to SPIN (Dutch for âspiderâ), where she sells a line of cosmetics under the brand name Delilah and wields a mean pair of scissors. Reve uses a half-hearted sexual affair with Christina as a way of getting to his real interestâthe younger man in her life, with whom he had an eerily coincidental encounter in a train station days earlier. Gradually, circumstances lead Reve to believe that Christina engineered the gruesome deaths of her first three husbands, and that his dreams and hallucinations are a kind of warning signal. Will he act on them in time to save a life?
Paul Verhoeven, after Turkish Delight, Kathy Tippel, Soldier of Orange and Spetters, found in Reveâs work a near-perfect mix of the cinematic ideas and images that stimulate him most: the dark side of eroticism, the joy of casual nudity, the richness of religious imagery, the Catholic tension between woman-worship and misogyny, the omnipresence of death, the grip of horror and the fantastic on the ordered human mind, the thriller genre as a frame for the collision of seriousness with satire.
This would be Verhoevenâs last Dutch film until his triumphant return to Dutch cinema with his longtime dream project Black Book in 2006. In between, he directed a string of visually libertine and darkly satirical cinematic adventures: Flesh + Blood, Robocop, Total Recall, Basic Instinct, Showgirls, Starship Troopers, and Hollow Man, earning equally passionate defenders and detractors along the way. The Fourth Man remains his richest, most provocative and most problematic film. In 1984, it was visually delicious, emotionally numbing, and intellectually baffling. Revisited several times over the past quarter century, the film has never dropped in my esteem, though it continues to give me the sneaking suspicion that both Verhoeven and Reve are having a bit of fun, and ultimately offering a lot less than meets the eye.
Verhoeven and producer Rob Houwer assembled a dream team for The Fourth Man: hot-blooded Jeroen KrabbĂ© as the manic Reve, coolly and frankly sexual Renee Soutendijk as the object of his experiment with heterosexuality and his growing paranoid suspicions, the brilliant Jan de Bont behind the camera, incisive scenarist Gerard Soeteman and powerful composer Loek Dikker. Theyâre all at their over-the-top best in this little masterpiece of eye-popping imagery.
In the film, Verhoeven managed to find a cinematic correlate to Reveâs introspective, hallucinatory proseâso much so that one suspects an epochal planetary alignment of Reve the poet, Reve the character, Soeteman the writer, Verhoeven the director, and KrabbĂ© the actor. Certainly each one in that string of estimable talents might say, as Reve does, âI lie the truth.â Writer, cineaste and actor all take true events and distort them into fiction, where they reshape themselves into symbolic but palpably real representations of higher truths.
How is the ability to synthesize oneâs hallucinations into art different from madness, if it is? Where does the ordered symbology of the writerâs perception of the world break down into the disordered tyranny of irrational conviction and uncontrollable emotion? By the climax, the agitated, overly suggestible Reve can no longer tell reality from imagery from ideas. Nor can we, and the point may be that it no longer matters.
Robert C. Cumbow is the author of books on John Carpenter and Sergio Leone. Several essays he originated on 24 Lies a Second were reintroduced and archived on The House Next Door. His home base is the Seattle film blog, The Parallax View.
All of Quentin Tarantinoâs Movies Ranked
On the occasion of the release of Once Upon a TimeâŠin Hollywood, we ranked Tarantino’s feature films.
Quentin Tarantinoâs commitment to fortifying the themes of Once Upon a TimeâŠin Hollywood with layers of self-reflexivity, while still anchoring its concepts to fully realized, emotionally invested characters, makes the film one of his greatestâa dense but focused effort that validates the divisive artistâs status as one of American cinemaâs preeminent pop-cultural figures. The film navigates late-â60s Hollywood, an immersive playground of opulence and iconicity, alongside Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio), a fading star of TV westerns trying to break into the movies, and his best friend and longtime stuntman, Cliff Booth (Brad Pitt), before then jumping six months ahead to take the temperature of Hollywood on the eve of the Charles Manson murders. As the landscape and the sociocultural identity of Hollywood continue to change, Once Upon a TimeâŠin Hollywood takes on an elegiac quality, with Dalton and Booth returning to L.A. from a sojourn to Europe and a pregnant Sharon Tate (Margot Robbie) preparing her home for the arrival of her baby boy.
The flash and fun of the filmâs first half gives way to a haunting decline into the valley of alcoholism, and to increasing signs that a new generation is about to push the old one out. And, then, inevitably, those tensions come to a head one August night on Cielo Drive in the Hollywood Hills. We wonât spoil the ending here, but we will tell you below where Once Upon a TimeâŠin Hollywood falls on our ranked list of Tarantinoâs features. Sam C. Mac
10. Death Proof (2007)
With his hair combed in a flashy pompadour and a white scar running down his cheek, Kurt Russell plays evil Stuntman Mike as a swaggering, folksy raconteur. Even in the universe of Tarantino, which suggests a self-contained and increasingly self-referential cinephileâs mixtape of the countless films heâs absorbed throughout his life, Russell feels like a living, breathing human being. By comparison, Mikeâs victims simply suggest regurgitating pop-culture sponges. Indeed, by the time Mike comes after them in his skull-painted hellmobile, we connect more to the graphic image of the stunningly crafted gore than we do to the loss of life. When the female characters turn into avenging angels, their motivations seem to turn on a dime. Their attitude toward life and death, whether it be their own (âIâm okay!â one of them happily beams right after sheâs almost been decimated by Mikeâs muscle car) or Mikeâs, is so casually flippant that weâre denied that sense of righteous rage. Maybe itâs a joke on those old drive-in movies, which never gave much thought to life or death either, but somehow the reverent self-referential quality of Death Proof is more offensive than those old grindhouse filmmakers who were in it simply to make a buck. Jeremiah Kipp
9. Django Unchained (2012)
With Django Unchained, Tarantino doesnât transcend the tropes of the revenge film, or the odd-couple buddy comedy for that matter. For all the filmâs ostentatiously shocking imagery and dialogue (Tarantino employs the n-word in a fashion that resembles the gimmicky scare tactics associated with director William Castle), one canât escape the suspicion that this filmâs a bloated vanity project with delusions of grandeur. Django Unchained features a blunter treatment of slavery than we routinely encounter in mainstream American cinema, but the garish fantasy violence only superficially distracts from Tarantinoâs allegiance to the same damn clichĂ©s that govern politer âissueâ films. Django Unchained is ultimately a white fantasy of purging shared cultural guilt, one that follows a benevolent white man (Christoph Waltz is the lead regardless of what his Oscar may say) as he befriends and liberates an appreciative black man who goes on to symbolically wipe the slate clean on subjugation. Chuck Bowen
8. Kill Bill: Vol. 1 (2003)
Even when he isnât at the top of his artistic game, Tarantino, like Jean-Luc Godard, is talented enough that he doesnât put this kind of spot-the-references playfulness front and center in his films: Tarantino always provides us with some kind of plot or emotional context in which such referencesâand in a QT film, theyâre legionâmean something to viewers other than the fact that theyâre referencing something. In other words, you donât have to know a great deal about the martial arts genre to enjoy the sheer kinetic energy of Kill Bill, Vol. 1 any more than you have to know about the various crime thrillers Godard references in order to enjoy Breathless or Band of Outsiders. It might enhance oneâs appreciation of those films more, but thereâs more to them than just showing off how encyclopedic their movie knowledge is. Although Tarantinoâs films sometimes make recognitions toward real-world hurt and pain, they almost invariably take place in a movie-induced fantasy world, one that takes no part in political discourse and prefers instead to wallow in the detritus of popular culture and movie historyâentertainment, in other words. Kenji Fujishima
7. The Hateful Eight (2015)
Rather than following a clean genealogical path back to Hollywood westerns of the Golden Age, The Hateful Eight often resembles Italian giallo horror, less for that subgenreâs tendency to luxuriate in synth scores and extravagant lighting setups than for its less-celebrated preoccupation with cruelty and pain. As in those extravagant and supernaturally tinged slashers, characters in The Hateful Eight who choose to have any agency apart from maintaining a cover story find a nebulous reward for forcing fateâs hand. When the gun smoke clears, we somehow end up with more dead bodies than we had living ones at the start, and the film proves to have quite a lot in common with John Carpenterâs The Thing, apart from having the same lead actor (Kurt Russell) and largely identical blizzard conditions: Death emerges from the floorboards, and, following a crisis, an impromptu âcourtâ is established to distinguish between friend and foe. Even the final moments echo the creature classic: Having dispensed justice at long last, two doomed men share a laugh over a great lie, and the camera retreats upward and away from their near-lifeless detente. The haberdashery, by design a sanctuary, has been transformed into a self-cleaning oven, now strewn with an assortment of particulate matter, and we arrive at an unexpected Reservoir Dogs callback: a vetting of moral arithmetic that leaves no survivors. Jaime N. Christley
6. Kill Bill: Vol. 2 (2004)
From a structural standpoint, Kill Billâs two volumes connect us to serial cinema past, specifically the two-part films of Fritz Lang. Itâs a mess at times, but a seemingly intentional and glorious one. Certainly, Tarantinoâs greatest skills are literary and his numerous digressions recall the stylistic flourishes of Thomas Pynchon. When Tarantino abandons the Bride (Uma Thurman) in her premature burial deathtrap to focus on an extended flashback of her martial arts training, itâs reminiscent of Pynchonâs nine-page aside in Gravityâs Rainbow, which details the biography of a light bulb named Byron. If that comparison makes Kill Bill sound like so much compulsive masturbation, rest assured that Tarantino has a point. Consider the movieâs two volumes as yin and yang: The first installment, focusing primarily on the Bride, corresponds to the Chinese principle of darkness, negativity, and femininity, while the second, with a tone heavily influenced by the charming and seductive Bill (David Carradine), corresponds to the opposing principle of light, heat, motivation, and masculinity. Tarantino revels in the filmic power of verbal and (meta)physical pas de deux, and itâs in the final section of the second part, detailing the Bride and Billâs surprising confrontation, that the entire enterprise reveals its profoundly mortal (and moral) soul. Keith Uhlich
Review: The Great Hack Is an Elusive Look at the Cambridge Analytica Scandal
It seems so invested in a rehabilitation of Brittany Kaiserâs image that the filmmakersâ own motives end up being its most interesting subject.1.5
Karim Amer and Jehane Noujaimâs documentary The Great Hack opens with a sweeping and essentially meaningless drone shot. âSomewhere in Nevadaâ a sole title reads over the image of a city that sprawls across the desert in the shadow of a rather stubby mountain range. Tedium has already begun to set in as ominous strings fade in on the soundtrack and the film cuts to the opening of the Burning Man festival, where Brittany Kaiserâformer business development director at notorious data-mining firm Cambridge Analyticaâsets out to do whatever it is that privileged white people do at Burning Man.
The Great Hack turns an undeniably important series of political events into a two-hour look at a wealthy criminal lounging in pools and riding in Ubers. The doc fakes its viewers out, though, after its pointless Burning Man prologue, introducing us to Professor David Carroll, an expert in social media marketing whose interest in recovering the data profile Cambridge Analytica illegally compiled of himâas it did of most every Americanâis meant to form something like the filmâs impetus. Carroll explains, in terms a tad too elementary for a digital-native audience, that heâs concerned with the effect that targeted misinformation campaigns directed at specific users are having on global democracy. Or, in his both too lofty and too simple words, âHow did the dream of a connected world tear us apart?â
One of the answers to Carrollâs question is that very specific peopleâpeople like Brittany Kaiserâdecided to use the internet for precisely that purpose. In voiceover, Carroll explains what Cambridge Analytica was and, in broad strokes, how its methods of data collection and analysis helped sway both the British EU referendum and the 2016 U.S. presidential election. Carrollâs explanation is illustrated with animated visualizations more concerned with appearing complex and sensational than they are with clearly presenting information. The corporate structure of Cambridge Analytica is presented with a conspiratorial air, as if the web of profile photos that the The Great Hack pieces together represents something far more nefarious and mysterious than a companyâs personnel page.
In its first act, the documentary makes ample use of such CG animations, including a rather repetitive motif in which photographed objects appear to pixelate and float up into the sky. We understand well before the fifth time we see this effect the metaphor that all thatâs real is moving willy-nilly into the cloud. But after Carroll makes it to London to sue Cambridge Analytica for his data, Amer and Noujaim more or less abandons him and his pedagogical approach for Kaiser, whom the filmmakers track down in Thailand, sipping a Mai Thai poolside. Kaiser is despicable, but The Great Hack appears to never tire of watching her stare pseudo-pensively out of car and airplane windows, or inventing new ways to rationalize her work for Cambridge, even as she turns stateâs witness in Britain.
The film spends so much time lingering on the mini-dramas of Kaiserâs jet-set lifeâand so little time detailing exactly what it was that Cambridge Analytica did, or investigating how we might stop it from happening againâthat one can conclude that in Kaiser the filmmakers believed they had found some kind of key to understanding our ongoing digitally fueled social catastrophe. The Great Hack befuddlingly includes a sequence in which Kaiser panics because she thinks sheâs lost her passport on her way to Heathrow, only to find it seconds later in her bag. Why include such an insignificant momentâor, for that matter, other sequences of Kaiser simply en route somewhere or waiting for something? What Amer and Noujaim see in Kaiser remains elusive. In fact, this meandering documentary seems so invested in a rehabilitation of her image that the filmmakersâ own motives end up being its most interesting subject.
Director: Karim Amer, Jehane Moujaim Screenwriter: Karim Amer, Erin Barnett, Pedro Kos Distributor: Netflix Running Time: 113 min Rating: NR Year: 2019
Review: Skin Confronts White Supremacy from a Dubious Point of View
The filmâs not-strictly-linear structure and handheld camerawork come to feel like attempts at masking a certain conventionality.2.5
In 1951âs The Origins of Totalitarianism, Hannah Arendt identifies the early adherents of the Nazi movement in Germany as belonging to a âmob,â which she distinguishes from the âmassâ as a motley group of the disaffected who felt themselves in various ways betrayed by the dominant institutions of societyâin essence, the outcasts from the masses. Guy Nattivâs Skin finds this mob of resentment thriving in the American Rust Belt, where neo-Nazi leader Fred âHammerâ Krager (Bill Camp) recruits young runaways to his organization, baiting them with hot meals and a simulacrum of family warmth. He and his wife, Shareen (Vera Farmiga), indoctrinate young drifters into their disciplinary, Oedipal clan, with Fred as the fearful father figure and Shareen as the mother whose affection they must earn.
A remake of Nattivâs Oscar-winning short of the same name, Skin is based on the true story of Byron âBabsâ Widner (Jamie Bell), who grew up under Fred and Shareenâs tutelage but is beginning to harbor doubts about the groupâs cause. The film opens with a confrontation between a march of allied neo-Nazi groups and a counter protest headed by the activist Daryle Jenkins (Mike Colter), in which Babs and other skinheads corner and assault a black protestor, disfiguring the young man and running off. Babs has a conscience, and he slowly comes to regret this assault. Early on, the film gives us another example of his cloaked sense of right and wrong: At a rally where Fred announces his congressional candidacy, another white nationalist verbally accosts a trio of young girls singing a folkishâor rather, vĂ¶lkischâtune, and Babs defends them, beating up the much larger man with a mic stand.
In Nattivâs film, the face-tatted Babsâs practiced, neutral expression becomes an ambivalent mask hiding wounded insecurity, explosive rage, or both. His violent defense of the young girls earns him gratitude from their mother, Julie Price (Danielle Macdonald), a legacy member of the white power movement whoâs decided to begin to removing herself from her familyâs milieu. As Julie and Babsâs connection becomes romanceâand as Jenkins pursues Babs, thinking he might be able to convince the neo-Nazi to become an informantâthe couple puts more and more distance between themselves and Fred and Shareenâs perverse surrogate family, placing themselves in direct conflict with a dangerous mob.
To symbolize Babsâs gradual break-up with his violent family, the film periodically flashes forward to the grueling, years-long process of removing the racist tattoos plastered across his body. Close-ups on ink being pulled out through skin, accompanied by Babsâs fraught screams, suggest that the pain his skin causes him in these scenes is just recompense for the crimes he committed and endorsed on behalf of an ideology built around the color of that skin.
Skin offers some insight to the appeal and functioning of white supremacist groupings, but after a while, the filmâs not-strictly-linear structure and handheld camerawork come to feel like self-conscious signs of âgrittyâ realism, attempts at masking a certain conventionality. This is, in the end, the story of a bad man being redeemed by the love of a good woman, and itâs worth questioning why Babs, rather than Jenkins, is at the center of the film. As Skin illustrates in an early, exposition-heavy scene, Jenkins has facilitated the turning of around a half-dozen Nazis. That a black man would dedicate so much time, at great personal risk, to penetrating the minds of avowed, violent racists seems the much more interestingâand relevantâstory here. Itâs not that anything in Skin runs egregiously contrary to the facts, or that Babsâs story isnât moving as presented, but one may be justified in contemplating why his turn away from Nazism is presented primarily as a personal redemption arc, and not primarily one of tireless activism and resistance by the opponents of fascism like Jenkins.
Cast: Jamie Bell, Danielle Macdonald, Daniel Henshall, Bill Kamp, Vera Farmiga, Mike Colter, Louisa Krause, Zoe Margaret Colletti, Kylie Rogers, Colbi Gannett Director: Guy Nattiv Screenwriter: Guy Nattiv Distributor: A24 Running Time: 120 min Rating: R Year: 2019
Odessa IFF 2019: The Cossacks, Queen of Hearts, Monos, & Projectionist
The festival feels like a long-awaited apparition in a place where events of its magnitude might be scarce.
At first glance, Odessa recalls the Algeria of the 1980s as described by playwright Jean-Luc Lagarce, a place where local âcurrency has no value and there is nothing to buy anyway.â Odessa seems coy about offering a fantasy version of itself to those who arenât already confined to it and to whom displaying the cityâin the shape of superfluous possessions or souvenirsâwould amount to a perverse redundancy. Itâs a city coherent to the brutal honesty of its human faces, a city virtually without store windows to hawk unessential goods to passersbyâunless one traverses its center, where a McDonaldâs and a Reebok shop appear as reminders of a glossier elsewhere. Perhaps the way Cameroon, as one Cameroonian once told me, is a country without sidewalks, âunless you go to Douala.â This is, of course, a respite from the capitalist assaults of places where to experience the city is to stack up on its mementos. Itâs this context that made the Odessa International Film Festival (OIFF) feel like a long-awaited apparition in a place where events of its magnitude might be scarce.
By the Lermontovskiy Hotel, where the international journalists covering the OIFF stay, only food seems to be for sale. Thereâs a 24/7 supermarket that closes when the security guard sees fit, a âJapanese and Thai Asian CafĂ©,â and a regal restaurant named Aleksandrovskiy, which sits inside a garden full of Versailles-esque fountains and statues, and where a select few can feast on a scrumptious leg of lamb on a bed of polenta for 12 euros. Perhaps the same select few who show up for OIFFâs outdoor screening of the 1928 film The Cossacks at the Potemkin Stairs but donât use the steps as bleachers, like the rest of us, instead taking their seats in the large cordoned-off VIP section close to the live orchestra for a few selfies and then dashing off.
A brief video pleading for the release of Crimean filmmaker Oleg Sentsov from a Russian prison preceded the film, eliciting passionate applause. Those actually using the steps as seats seemed to truly savor the event, which took the shape of what film screenings were probably more like in the early 20th century: raucous fair-like happenings with lots of talking and where the film was only one of many multi-sensorial elements. In many ways, The Cossacks is about how the production of a nation is entwined with the production of gender norms. Lukashka (John Gilbert) is seen as a softie. Heâs derided as being a fraction of a man, or a half-Cossack, because he would rather spend his time reading than fighting, to the horror of his entourage. He ends up going to war in order to legitimize his status as a man for his family and his beloved Maryana (RenĂ©e AdorĂ©e). In the world of the film, becoming a man involves killing at least one Turk or two, and becoming a woman means marrying a man who has killed Turks.
The Cossacks was a fascinating selection to screen at the Potemkin Stairs because it wrapped a critique of normativity in some of the most sexist of cinematic languages, female ass shots as gags and all, making it hard to know what kind of selective reading of the film the audience might be making. The men on the screen are always either accosting, harassing, molesting, or trying to rape Maryana, which might be what triggered Rose McGowan, one of the festivalâs celebrity guests, to leave just a few minutes into the screening.
As much as watching a film such as George Hill and Clarence Brownâs silent drama at the place where one of cinemaâs most iconic sequences was shot feels like the crossing off of a bucket-list item we didnât realize was on that list until we experienced it, the off-screen drama was just as enticing. There was, for instance, the blatant spectacle of Ukrainian income inequality with âthe peopleâ huddled up on the uncomfortable steps for two hours eager to engage with a silent film while Ukrainian socialites decked out in animal prints treated the event more like a vernissage. There was also the impossible quest for a public bathroom mid-screening. This involved walking into a half-closed market across from the Potemkin Stairs and interrupting a loud quarrel between a mother and her adult son, who worked at one of the market stalls.
Itâs difficult to guess where queerness goes in Odessa. Maybe it only lives as disavowal, as in The Cossacks, which ends with Lukashka, after anointing his masculinity by slaughtering 10 Turks, stating to Maryana heterosexualityâs mathematical logic in its simplest form: âI am your man. You are my woman. I want you.â And the anointing is never final, the film seems to say. Indeed, as his father lies dying in his arms, Lukashka asks him: âFather, am I Cossack?â The question of where queerness might live, in this context, would be finally answered a few days later when I visit the only gay club in Odessa, Libertin, and meet a trans woman name Jalala, who confides that thereâs a âplaceâ in Odessa where straight men can go to to have sex with women like her. âIs it an app?â I ask. Jalala smiles and says that itâs a park. âBut itâs dangerous,â she tells me. âItâs very exciting and very dangerous.â Because there are skinheads, she says. âDo the skinheads want to kill you or fuck you, or fuck you and then kill you?â I ask her. âI donât know,â she responded. âThatâs why itâs dangerous.â
The festival main grounds, in front of the majestic Odessa Academic Theatre of Musical Comedy, arenât unlike Londonâs Southbank Centre in the early days of summer, where visitors and locals are both sold the idea that the city is this fun all year long. The atmosphere is cosmopolitan, with Nina Simone remixes or early Erykah Badu playing in the background, food trucks, a Mastercard stall, and outdoor sitting poufs. Thereâs also no stress in the air, no suffocating crowds, and as such no anxiety about being turned away from a screening.
When looking at the festivalâs program, one may scoff at the apparent lack of diversity and, more specifically, queerness. After a few screenings, though, one may get the sense that queerness does live at the Odessa International Film Festival and, per Jalalaâs account, in Odessa more generallyâit just isnât publicized. In Queen of Hearts, for instance, director May el-Toukhy takes the age-old narrative of the stranger who turns up to disrupt domestic bliss, or ennui, and gives it a daring incestuous twist. Anne (Trine Dyrholm) and Peter (Magnus Krepper) live an idyllic life in a mansion somewhere in Denmark with two young, and creepily angelic, twin daughters (Liv and Silja EsmĂ„r Dannemann). Thereâs something eerie about this setup even before Peterâs problematic teenage son, Gustav (Gustav Lindh), from another marriage is shipped from Sweden to live with his dad and unsettle everything.
Whatâs uncanny about Anne and Peterâs home is, of course, the way it gleams a kind of speckless completion of the heterosexual project, which could only ever be possible as a mirage. Theirs is the home of dreams bound to become nightmares by the introduction of even the most vaguely foreign element. Such as reality, that most irksome of registers, or a long-lost son. The house of Queen of Hearts, whose drama is so latent youâd only have to snap your fingers for chaos to erupt, evokes the house of Bong Joon-hoâs Parasite, the kind of immaculate luxury that could only be sitting on top of some macabre bunker full of roaches and well-fed zombies. The drama that links these homes is the notion that the epitome of the heterosexual family bliss borders its very obliteration, with the unruly resurfacing of all the gunk that had been swept underneath, as the very foundation for its habitat.
When Gustav arrives, then, and ends up having an affair with his stepmom, a trench coat-wearing lawyer for young victims of sexual abuse, weâre only surprised at how careless they seem to be about being found out. El-Toukhy is smart to avoid sensationalizing the taboo-breaking premise of the narrative with a camera that sides with Anne: her sexual hunger, her contradictions, her stretch marks. This isnât a film about roundabout incest, but one about the impossibility of satisfaction even for the most privileged woman, one with a high-powered and socially engaged job, money to spare, and a mansion by the lake in a Scandinavian country.
Queen of Hearts focuses on Anneâs paradoxes: Sheâs a savior and a monster, a middle-aged mother and a horny teenager, unabashedly exposing the inconvenient pores that remain underneath even the most beautifully made-up Nordic skin. And the film is about skin, ultimately. In the way Anne and Gustav have raw sex and the marks on Anneâs stomach are filmed with purpose, sincerity, and no apology. The affair begins when Anne walks into Gustavâs bedroom and gives him a handjob without bothering to lock the door. This comes soon after he brought a girl his own age home and Anne had to sit in her living room, staring at her laptop and drinking a glass of wine, while listening to the teenagers having sex. By the time Anne goes to the lake with Gustav and one of her twin girls, and Anne decides to get in the water, we know the deal is done. âBut you never swim,â says the girl. Water in Queen of Hearts bears the same prophetic sexual force thatâs appeared in many films, queer or not, from F.W. Murnauâs Sunrise to Alain Guiraudieâs Stranger by the Lake.
The affair isnât about love, of course, or passion. Itâs not even about the sex itself. The affair is a settling of accounts, a vampiric attempt to deny the passing of time, which, by virtue of having passed, feels like itâs been wasted. For Anne, the culprit is Peter, who becomes a cock-blocking nuisance. The film, a melodrama with a superb final shot that offers no closure, at times tries too hard to provide a cause for Anneâs passage Ă lâacte. When Gustav asks Anne who she lost her virginity to, she answers, âWith someone it shouldnât have been,â which makes it seem like the film is suggesting that predatorial behavior is a sort of damned inheritance. The Queen of Hearts is much more successful, and courageous, when it follows the logic of sexual yearning itself, not worrying about rational justifications.
The first few sequences of Alejandro Landesâs Monos evoke Claire Denisâs Beau Travail, except it isnât only men training in the deserted landscape. A few young women join them, which, inevitably takes the narrative elsewhere, even if the filmsâ basic premises are similar. In Monos, teenage guerilla fighters are supposed to guard a foreign hostage, Doctora Sara Watson (Julianne Nicholson), and a conscripted cow named Shakira. Intrigue and sexual tension ensure that nothing goes according to plan. The only thing that never finds any respite is the flow of violence, which increasingly loses its metaphorical sheen, becoming gratuitous toward the end. What starts out like a social critique gains the aura of an unnecessarily grisly horror film, more about overtly visible chains than the allegorical slaughtering of cows by paramilitary children named Rambo, Lady, Bigfoot, and Smurf.
It turns out that queerness lives even in the faraway mountaintops of the Colombian jungle, as one of the guerilla girls makes two boys kiss at the start of the film, which brought a discrete discomfort to the screening room I was seated in. By the time Nicholsonâs character shares a brief lesbian kiss with a reluctant fighter whoâs supposed to watch over her, later in the film, queerness is no longer a conceptual surprise hinting at meaningful registers beyond the narrativeâs surface, but a kind of desperate attempt to make the plot seem cryptic. Like The Cossacks, Landesâs film is also about the impossibility of maintaining complete control over oneâs claim of masculinity, or power more generally. In moments of crisis, the line between predator and prey get very thin, and even the most well-armed warriors have a way of becoming disarmed, naked, and sentimental.
Yuriy Shylovâs Projectionist follows the frailty of all flesh, hawkish accessory in hand or not, through the portrayal of the end of a film projectionistâs 44-year tenure at one of Kievâs oldest movie theaters. Itâs an end that coincides with the crumbling of projectionist Valentinâs own coughing body, and that of his bedridden mother. It turns out that the movie theater, too, is reaching its expiration point. Soon, its doors will close and its employees will be fired, and thereâs a sense throughout Shylovâs documentary that analog cinema will be dealt a major blow with the theaterâs closure. What will become of the space? Perhaps a Reebok or a McDonaldâs. Perhaps a derelict muse for a Nikolaus Geyrhalter portrait of decay.
âYou think youâre loud, but in reality you can only hear yourself,â Valentin tells his mother at one point. Her futile yelling of her sonâs name from her bed is one of the most haunting motifs in the film. An uttering for utteringâs sake, a demand without expectations of an actual response, a mantra to remind oneself that one is, for now, still alive. Valentin has installed a whistle next to the bed, which he would actually be able to hear when she called if only sheâd use it. But the mother mostly refuses to blow in the pragmatic apparatus, instead finding solace in the calling that wonât be heard and, thus, will need to be repeated ad nauseam.
Projectionist can feel a bit aimless, but itâs a welcome reminder of how the materiality of film, and thus its finitude, has something in common with our ownâa kinship of frailty that the flawlessness of the digital image erases. Analog is the only technology that Valentin knows, whether heâs sewing, as heâs seen doing in the film, fixing a neighborâs straightening iron, or projecting old home videos on filthy kitchen tiles. Thereâs pleasure to be found, for Valentin, not just in the stories, concepts, and metaphors of cinema, but in the very stuff that supports his craft, the paraphernalia of cinema thatâs bound to crack, to dry out, to turn to dust, to disappear forever: film stock, Movieolas, spools, and so forth. Cinema, weâre reminded, is necessarily a tool of exposure, not just of the human condition in the face of death, but the human condition as an always gendered affair. Itâs a tool thatâs never settled, never comfortable, and never forgotten. âMen are cowards, didnât you know that?â is how Valentin puts it toward the end of Projectionist. In his world, one would know, by looking at the projector, at the very stuff of cinema, how much longer a film would last. The remainder of the filmâs âlifeâ is perfectly real, perfectly tangible, and alive because itâs in constant danger of being jammed up and torn by the very engine that ensured its running.
The Odessa International Film Festival runs from July 12â20.
Review: In Angels Are Made of Light, a Nation Rebuilds in the Ruins of War
The film is an intimate portrait of a nation terminally anxious about who will see fit to rule it next.2.5
Early in Angels Are Made of Light, a voice breaks through a sea of chatter in a classroom teeming with young boys: âI only know about the time since I was born. Whatâs history?â The child goes on to explain that history isnât taught at the Daqiqi Balkhi high school in Kabul, Afghanistan. The questionâs poignance is self-evident, particularly because the building itself appears to have been disturbed by the cityâs recent trauma. The opening shot of James Longleyâs first film since Iraq in Fragments captures splotches of sunlight entering through holes in the schoolâs exterior. Later, one of the buildingâs walls collapses, and the children relocate to a location supported by American funding.
Though it inevitably gestures toward American occupation, Angels Are Made of Light is rare in its nearly undivided attention to civilian life in a region fundamentally altered by the U.S.âs so-called war on terror. Much of the film is composed of footage Longley shot at Daqiqi Balkhi from 2011 to 2014, with a particular focus on three brothers: Rostam, Sohrab, and Yaldash. The trio speak in voiceover throughout, and seem to define themselves by their relative interest in work and studying. Sohrab excels in school and doesnât see himself as fit for manual labor, while the older Rostam works closely with their father. Yaldash, the youngest, works at a tin shop and is anguished when his job interferes with his educational aspirations.
The documentaryâs classroom scenes exude a tone of controlled chaos, shot mostly at eye level with the students as they struggle to hear and be heard over the din of their classmates. (This is particularly true at their schoolâs first location, where numerous classes are taught outside right next to one another.) The passage of time is marked by changes in seasons and the repetition of certain ceremonies, like a teacher appreciation day featuring musical performances by students. Concurrently, thereâs a Malickian quality to the near-constant voiceover of the brothers, whose concerns veer from the quotidian (earning money for the family, achieving in school) to the philosophical. Though their voices are profound, their limited perspective yields lengthy stretches of repetitive, meandering sentiments that are inflated by John Erik Kaadaâs sometimes intrusive score.
If the children arenât taught about their countryâs history as a site of hostile takeover by other countries, the Taliban, and groups of mujahideen, they have clearly internalized the trauma their homeland has endured. âDeath is coming. Doomsday is coming. Everything is coming,â one says. All seem to agree that learning about computers (none of which are seen in the documentary) is the only sure ticket to an escape or a successful career.
As Angels Are Made of Light proceeds, its chorus of narrative voices expands, adding a number of teachers (including the boysâ mother) and another schoolboy who sells hot food at an open market. The teachers add flashes of historical context, which Longley plays over archival footage of Kabul and its ruling governments over the previous decades. Cuts between the cityâs past and its present are stark: The contemporary skyline is pockmarked with absent buildings that have been replaced by makeshift structures, and the cityâs center is now cluttered with billboards advertising mobile phones and alcohol produced in NATO countries. Eventually, Longley shows current political action in the streets, as mujahideen gather to flog themselves in public, other groups march for democracy, and all focus their attention on 2014 presidential election where Hamid Karzai democratically transfers power to his successor, Ashraf Ghani, as rumors swirl about the Americansâ sway over the vote.
Longleyâs decision to avoid addressing Afghani politics until the latter half of his film is sound, perhaps a signal that his young characters are becoming more attuned to the corruption that pervades daily operations in their city, but Angels Are Made of Light lacks the sort of structural framework that can properly sustain its lack of plot and rather confusing array of editorialists speaking in voiceover. The closest the film comes to a guiding focus is the recurring image of a large, ghostly white blimp that looms over Kabul, a blot of menace as children and other citizens look to the sky in hope or prayer. Presumably an observational surveillance craft, the blimp is an ironic mirror of the documentarianâs predicamentâa totem that reminds everyone who sees it of the Westâs influence on their lives. Longley is aware that his camera serves a similar function, and itâs admirable that heâs able to achieve an intimate portrait of a nation terminally anxious about who will see fit to rule it next.
Director: James Longley Distributor: Grasshopper Film Running Time: 117 min Rating: NR Year: 2018
Review: Mike Wallace Is Here Honors a Legend by Arguing with Him
Much like its subject, Avi Belkinâs documentary knows how to start an argument.3
Much like its subject, Mike Wallace Is Here knows how to start an argument. Avi Belkinâs archival documentary begins with the legendary broadcaster (who died in 2012) interviewing Bill OâReilly at the peak of the latterâs influence as a Fox News blowhard. âThat is not an interview, thatâs a lecture,â Wallace moans before OâReilly calls him a âdinosaurâ and then really twists the knife: âYouâre the driving force behind my career,â he tells Wallace. The exchange is riveting and, in some ways, inscrutable, as both of these TV personalities are so skilled at performance it can seem impossible to know if their dialogue is in earnest or some knowing fight among titans happy to march into battle.
Though itâs almost certainly fair to say that Wallace set the stage for an era of ostentatious and increasingly dangerous âpersonality journalism,â the breadth and quality of Wallaceâs work is rich enough to lend some tension to Belkinâs exploration of the reporter as celebrity. Assembled with a propulsive momentum from dozens of televised interviews of and by Wallace, Mike Wallace Is Here portrays its subject as a self-made man, or, as his colleague Morley Safer calls him, âan invention.â Born Myron Wallace, he adopted his broadcast name while working as a performer on radio and then television, a decision made with no shortage of anxiety due to Wallaceâs self-consciousness about his acne scars from childhood.
Ironically, Wallaceâs breakthrough as a broadcaster (after a series of acting and promotional gigs) came with a show that revolutionized the television interview through its intense lighting and use of invasive closeups. Clips from his show Night-Beatâthe first of two Wallace-led interview programs sponsored by cigarette companies and cloaked in smokeâreveal that the media personality was already aware of the showmanship innate in his brand of journalism. He introduces the show by saying âMy role is that of a reporter,â and hones his skill for unsettling his guests with obnoxious editorial comments before asking questions. (âMany people hated your husband, and you,â he once said to Eleanor Roosevelt.)
Belkin weaves Wallaceâs personal story into the documentaryâs parade of interviews in a manner thatâs unsurprisingly superficial, glossing over his many marriages, the death of his 19-year-old son, Peter, in a mountain-climbing accident in Greece in 1962 (Wallace cites the tragedy as a pivotal moment in the creation of 60 Minutes and the revival of his career), and a suicide attempt circa 1986. In interviews where Wallace is the subjectâwith the likes of Barbara Walters and other 60 Minutes colleaguesâheâs alternately open and evasive about these flashpoints in his life, often demonstrating the very behavior he has no patience for as an interviewer. Belkin shrewdly reveals Wallaceâs hypocrisy through editing, cutting to, for instance, a clip of Wallace grilling Larry King about his string of failed marriages.
Mike Wallace Is Here only suffers in its treatment of the broadcasterâs time at 60 Minutes, dispensing with cleverly edited commentary in favor of a swift survey of the major news of the second half of the 20th century. These include necessary digressions, such as General William C. Westmorelandâs libel suit against a CBS Reports special that Wallace anchored accusing the Army general of falsifying the American militaryâs analysis of the strength of the Vietnamese army in order to keep the war in Vietnam going, and the tumultuous process of televising Wallaceâs interview with the tobacco industry whistleblower Jeffrey Wigand (the subject of Michael Mannâs The Insider). But this extensive highlight reel seems to forget that the documentary is scrutinizing Wallace as itâs celebrating him.
At its nerviest, Mike Wallace Is Here uses the words of other celebrities to psychoanalyze Wallace. The film argues (and at times Wallace acknowledges) that his success is a product of his sense of shame, first about the way that he looked and then about the way that he behaved, loved, and parented. When Wallace is coy, Belkin effectively imagines a more honest response by cutting to someone else saying what he believes is true. After showing Wallace dancing around his lack of pride for a while, he cuts to Barbara Streisand talking about how âfear is the energy toward doing your best work.â In the very same interview, she calls Wallace âa son of a bitch,â and Mike Wallace Is Here is at its best when it seems to be in direct debate with this journalistic legend. The film honors Wallace best when it seems to be arguing with him.
Director: Avi Belkin Distributor: Magnolia Pictures Running Time: 94 min Rating: PG-13 Year: 2019
Japan Cuts 2019: Demolition Girl, And Your Bird Can Sing, & Being Natural
Japan Cuts has established itself as the definitive Japanese film festival in the United States, thanks to the scope of its programming.
Japan Cuts has established itself as the definitive Japanese film festival in the United States, thanks to the scope of its programming. The 2019 edition is no exception, with over 30 events over 10 days, among them talks, screenings, and Q&A sessions with filmmakers as diverse as Macoto Tezka (The Legend of the Stardust Brothers) and Shinya Tsukamoto (Tetsuo: The Iron Man), the latter of whom is this yearâs recipient of the festivalâs Cut Above award, which is given to a defining figure of Japanâs cinema, and will be awarded before the East Coast premiere of his latest film, the samurai action-drama Killing.
Lest you think Japan Cuts is only a showcase for genre exercises, the festival abounds in works that explore the struggles that erupt from the Japanese capitalist system, and are felt in different ways across generations. Demolition Girl, Genta Matsugamiâs feature debut, is among the strongest of recent films to bluntly speak about class difference. It follows 17-year-old Cocoa (Aya Kitai), who, in the wake of her motherâs death, has decided to forgo a university education and get a job. But as her shifts at a local amusement park only pay so much, she starts to perform in adult fetish videos that see her stomping on cans, trash, and balloons.
At his best, the film taps into the heightened experience of the poorest of the people living on the edge. For one, whenever Cocoaâs father (Yota Kawase) has some money on hand, he yearns for instant satisfaction, spending it on expensive sushi. As for Cocoa, whoâs isolation is emphasized through shots that see her alone in corridors, or studying late at night in her room, itâs almost as if sheâs destined to fail. And, indeed, when her school finds out about the adult videos sheâs been making, and just as she was beginning to realize her promise of going to a Tokyo university, her life falls apart. When confronted by friends about why she made the videos, all she can do is yell at them: âYou wouldnât understand, youâre rich, you wouldnât know. Will you pay for my expenses?â In this moment, Kitaiâs triumph is making her characterâs wail against a cruel economic system feel as if it could be our own.
And Your Bird Can Sing, directed by Sho Miyake, is focused on two late-twentysomething slackers: the unnamed protagonist (Tasuku Emoto) and his roommate, Shizo (Himizu and Parasyte star ShĆta Sometani). Both work crappy jobs, and they try to stay sane through copious amounts of drinking and pointed mockery of the economically fraught lot theyâve been handed in life. The protagonistâs attitude could be summed up by one early sequence, when he meets a co-worker and convinces her to go on a date, only to later miss the date, fall asleep, wake up, and decide to spend his night drinking with Shizo.
A love triangle between the roomies and one of the protagonistâs co-workers, Sachiko (Shizuka Ishibashi), brings some solace to the menâs lives. Thereâs redundancy to the way that Miyake frames these characters, showing their faces up close rather than the screens they peer at as they text each other, but his wide shots speak to how they all work to fill empty spaces. Miyakeâs style is relaxed, almost as if his camera has absorbed everyoneâs slacker vibes. Especially of note is a sequence that lingers at length on Sachiko paying for groceries while the two men in her life try to hold their laughter, saying to each other that sheâs going to regret her purchase. Miyakeâs gaze is empathetic, and thereâs truth in his understanding that you have to sometimes laugh at your underprivilege in order to prevent yourself from screaming.
More tonally varied, and operating on a larger scale, director Tadashi Nagayamaâs satirical Being Natural broaches the subject of gentrification as it immerses viewers in the daily routines of a middle-aged man, Taka (Yota Kawase), who lives in a small town in the countryside of Japan and works with his cousin, Mitsuaki (Shoichiro Tanigawa), and their friend, Sho (Tadahiro Tsuru), at a fishpond inherited from his deceased uncle. Everything starts to derail for the three men when a family arrives on the scene from Tokyo with the hopes of opening up an old-style cafĂ© that will only sell natural and locally grown products. At the start of the film, the still-grieving Taka doesnât fully understand what he has until someone tries to take it away from him, and by the end, a spectacular show of violence will see him finally realizing the nature of the economic system heâs trapped within.
The filmâs style is initially sweet and mellow, with the softest of songs dotting the soundtrack. Taka plays bongos, and the sounds of the instrument are also heard throughout. At first, this sound creates a calm atmosphere thatâs in sync with the bright cinematography. But as the film introduces a series of sinister twists, those bongos come to take on an almost murderous bent. The sounds of the instrument point to the encroachment of a capitalist economy on a place relatively untouched by it. In its final minutes, Being Natural takes a turn toward the supernatural, and itâs satisfying for giving the main characters the reprisal they want, but also poignant for the way it has us understand that it only occurs in the realm of fantasy. The film, in the end, acknowledges that itâs difficult to go against the system, and that to stay sane means finding a little pocket of happiness in the world and enjoying it while it lasts.
Japan Cuts runs from July 19â28.
Review: David Crosby: Remember My Name Sees a Legend Carrying On
The film captures a man haunted by his past mistakes and nearly certain that he doesnât have the time left to begin making up for them.2.5
One gets the sense when hearing David Cosby perform that, like many naturally gifted vocalists, he was born to express himself through song, and given his tumultuous personal and professional life, the act of singing may be the only means through which Crosby can briefly maintain an equilibrium amid so much chaos. Womanizing, drug abuse, and band breakups are certainly par for the course for countless musicians, especially those who came up in the late 1960s, but Crosby is an extreme case even by those standards. Itâs difficult to think of another living musician more strongly and uniformly despised by his former bandmates and collaborators and, aside from Keith Richards, another whose continued survival is more shocking in light of what heâs put his body through.
Aided by Cameron Crowe, who, as a Rolling Stone writer, interviewed Crosby various times and is on hand here to again pick the musicianâs brain, A.J. Eatonâs David Crosby: Remember My Name opens with a fairly standard music-doc overview that traces Crosbyâs productive early years with the Byrds and his ascent to fame with both iterations of Crosby, Stills & Nash. Thereâs no effort made to hide Crosbyâs thorny personality or the chaos he brought to each of these early projects, but Eaton and Crowe seem initially content to butter Crosby up, joining him in waxing rhapsodic about his widespread influence and lasting importance as a musician.
The hagiographic tone slowly fades as the film moves past the perfunctory career retrospective and begins delving into the nitty-gritty details of Crosbyâs bumpy road to stardom and his rapid descent into disgrace, spurred on by his decades-long battle with drug addiction. While Crosby often proves a tough nut to crack, rarely willing to linger too long on the painful moments of a life eventful enough to fill several documentaries, Crowe and Eaton eventually disarm him enough to tap into the frustrated, damaged, and regretful man hiding all those years beneath his patented walrus mustache and wispy, long hair. As Crosby discusses the petulance and rage he often unfairly directed at fellow bandmates and his mistreatment of many of his girlfriends, several of whom he got hooked on cocaine and heroin, one can sense not only the depth of his remorse and anguish, but also the resigned helplessness that little can be done in his twilight years to repair the many bridges heâs permanently scorched.
Throughout Remember My Name, archival interviews with Stephen Stills, Graham Nash, and Neil Young make it abundantly clear that Crosby has alienated each of his former bandmates to such a degree that none of them will talk to him again. Only former Byrds frontman Roger McGuinn appears in a newly recorded interview for the film, and he does so presumably only to describe how âinsufferableâ Crosby was as a fellow bandmate.
At nearly 80 years old, Crosby is happily married and in the midst of a creative resurgence with a string of acclaimed solo albums, but even these small joys are mitigated by his admission that heâs only touring, and thus often away from his wife, because he needs the money. During a leisurely drive with Crowe, Crosby visits his old stomping grounds in Laurel Canyon and the Sunset Strip and recounts those halcyon days when he lived with Joni Mitchell and sang his first song with Nash and Stills. But the magic of these locales has long since faded, leaving Crosby in an uncharacteristically introspective state and all too aware of how close he is to the end of his life. As he wistfully tells Crowe that he already has eight stents in his heart and will likely die in the next couple of years, the film captures a man haunted by his past mistakes and nearly certain that he doesnât have the time left to begin making up for them.
Director: A.J. Eaton Distributor: Sony Pictures Classics Running Time: 95 min Rating: R Year: 2019
Review: Cassandro, the Exotico! Shoulders the Strange Burden of Empathy
Marie Losierâs empathy, if not love, for Cassandro hinders her from examining his wounds with much depth.2.5
Queerness isnât just about the relationship between bodies: the ones we desire, the ones that will never desire us back, the ones we wished we possessed. Itâs also very much a matter of cloth, color, and adornment. Many a pop-cultural figure has manifested this queer sartorial drama, from Liberace to David Bowie, from Leigh Bowery to early Lady Gaga, from Pepper LaBeija to Shangela Laquifa Wadley. And with her new documentary, Cassandro, the Exotico!, Marie Losier introduces us to a lesser-known, yet just as subversive, purveyor of that drama: Mexican luchador Cassandro, a Universal Wrestling Association winner and former junkie with a penchant for gaudy garments.
Ridiculous stage wear is, of course, fundamentally associated with professional wrestling, but Cassandroâs textile-informed camp isnât compensated by violent machismo or a heterosexist mise-en-scĂšne. Instead, this exĂłtico is unapologetic about the seamless kinship between his queerness and that of the clothes he wears. And the continuum between queer sexuality and fashion places him simultaneously as the exceptional gay figure in a supposedly macho sport, the Mexican lucha libre, and as the element that outs wrestling writ large as an already queer affair. Cassandro, nĂ© SaĂșl ArmendĂĄriz, is, then, a ready-made cinematic character, bearing the contradictions of his world from the insideâa world where, much like ours, heterosexual male violence is performed through patently homoerotic means.
Although skin, bones, and fabric are allâto various degrees of visible and invisible discomfortâstitched into the gendered body, the film is precisely concerned with the moment when these connections come apart at the seams. After decades of fighting for a living, Cassandroâs body is giving out. This is a moment of desperation for someone who turned to wrestling as something between religion and therapy. We see him literally hanging his flamboyant costumes to dry on a clotheslines as he speaks about retirement, about how quitting would appease his body but demolish his ego. As the film progresses, his dislocated chin, limited hand movements, and multiple head concussions will seem like the belated embodiment, if not the psychosomatic scream, of a childhood marked by molestation and sexual abuse. A history of spectacular violence catching up to years of a much less visible brutality.
Cassandro, the Exotico! is largely observational, with occasional interventions from Losier. It wouldnât be fair to call the film hagiographic, but the directorâs empathy, if not love, for her subject hinders her from examining Cassandroâs wounds with much depth. When faced with Cassandroâs misery, Losierâs response is to console him as if wanting to change the subject. She cuts one moment of candidness short, when Cassandro is addressing his fears via Skype, by telling him, âI wish I could give you a kiss.â It would have served the documentary better had Losier granted her subject the possibility to work through his pain in front of the camera.
Visually, the documentary, which is shot on 16mm film stock, recalls canonical diaristic works that expose peopleâs troublesome feelings in raw and unbridled fashion (think Jonas Mekas, Sadie Benning, and Su Friedrich). Which makes the juxtaposition of Losierâs visual language and her reluctance to examine Cassandroâs frailties feel particularly displeasing. Perhaps afraid that scrutiny would shatter Cassandro, Losier fails to realize that itâs precisely through such shattering that redemption can emerge, maybe even reparation.
Director: Marie Losier Screenwriter: Marie Losier, Antoine Barraud Distributor: Film Movement Running Time: 73 min Rating: NR Year: 2018
Interview: Marc Maron on Sword of Truth, WTF, and the Possibility of Change
Maron discusses modern media discourse, the communicative bridge linking his acting with his podcast, and how he likes to be directed.
Marc Maron is presently enjoying one of the most unlikely and inspiring success stories in Hollywood. Once known as a bitter âcomicâs comicâ who was eclipsed in success by contemporaries such as Louis C.K. and Jon Stewart, Maron has been reborn into a poster boy for empathy, starting with his blockbuster podcast, âWTF,â and continuing with roles in the hit television series Maron, Easy, and GLOW. With each role, Maron has rapidly evolved from a âcomic who actsâ into a first-rate character actor capable of subtly altering his charisma to fit a variety of oddballs who, like himself, struggle with self-doubt while attempting to walk a straight and sober path.
Now, with Sword of Truth, Maron makes his debut as a cinematic lead, playing Mel, a pawnshop owner who ends up on a road trip that stirs long-festering feelings of estrangement, which parallels the forms of isolation gripping a variety of other characters, and which the filmâs director, Lynn Shelton, links to the reactionary myths and politics currently gripping this country. The role marks another career high point for Maron, who talked to me last week about the communicative bridge linking his acting with his podcast, how he likes to be directed, and the âmind-fuckeryâ currently gripping modern media discourse.
Given that youâve previously worked with Lynn Shelton on Maron and GLOW, did you two have a kind of collaborative shorthand going into Sword of Trust?
Well, Iâm generally filled with anxiety and resistance. I donât know if thereâs a shorthand, but Lynn knows how to get the best out of me and works with me pretty well. I like directors whoâre hands on with me and guide me.
Do you like to receive a lot of explicit direction, or is your process more intuitive?
Well, I do what I do. I definitely welcome suggestions, because Iâm certainly not going to think of all the possibilities of a scene. Most of my choices are not necessarily correct. I usually come in pretty intense and hot, and thereâs subtleties that can be coaxed out with minor tweaks. And I like working like that. I wouldnât have the confidence to assume that my take is the ârightâ one necessarily.
Thereâs a stillness to you in Sword of Trust that Iâm not sure weâve seen before.
Your weight as a performer is really felt here, especially in that scene when Mel first see Lynnâs character in his shop. I love how you enter the room from the closet, and how one can feel the emotion bubbling up in Mel.
Thanks, man. I think this is a heavy-hearted guy whoâs sort of surrendered to his lot in life. He also has a certain amount invested in his own. I donât know if itâs heartache, but heâs definitely a broken dude whoâs making the best of whatever time he has left. I donât know if the other characters are really like that. They are always in forward motion.
You also inform Melâs appraising of objects with all these lovely emotional textures. Heâs not only talking about a sword.
The guitar too. As I act more, I try to take some of the space that youâre talking about. With acting I feel that Iâve been learning on the job in a way, and over time Iâve started to explore different possibilities with owning whatever my space is, whether itâs a movie or on stage. Certainly, over decades of doing stand-up, Iâve figured out my space on a stage, but being on a set and pacing yourself and taking the time to engage with whatâs around you I think makes a lot of difference in how a performance comes off. Itâs about being present in an environment.
Has your ascending acting career changed how you relate to actors on your podcast?
Over the last few years, since Iâve started acting more, Iâve had more actors on. I tend to try to pull a nice acting class out of that. I think a lot of what my guests say makes sense. Once again, a lot of acting is about listening and being present. In another time in my life, I saw certain actors as mythic. Now that Iâve talked to so many of them, Iâve started to realize, not in a disappointing way, thatâŠwhatâs the word I want? That these are people doing a job, all in their own way. Once you get on set with people, you realize, âWell, thatâs how theyâre approaching this job,â and when you get into the ring or the scene, youâre in it.
That inside knowledge gives âWTFâ an edge too. For many interviewers, like myself, art-making is basically theory. But you have your feet on the ground so to speak.
I think that happens over time. I donât think I ever set out to interview. Iâve framed what happens on my podcast as conversations, and they either go somewhere or they donât. Thereâs a few points I may get hung up on, and there are places I go to fairly regularly in interviews, but I generally donât see these conversations as question-and-answer situations. I donât have any expectations really other than to feel a connection or to sort of be enlightened. I think those of you who have a job to interview, for an outlet, for the content and the word count and everything else, might have more restrictions. I donât have to answer to anybody and I donât know what Iâm looking for half the time.
Yeah, and a challenge Iâve found with interviews is that one doesnât always entirely know what is and isnât in bounds, which can lead to an impersonal vibe. By contrast, your podcast has such an intimate layer throughout.
You have to feel that stuff out, you know Iâm not necessarily intuitive about that. Iâm not really in the business of sandbagging anybody.
Usually you get somebody comfortable and things come out. If people are comfortable and engaged it doesnât really matter what theyâre talking about. Audiences will say, âOh, wow, I didnât know that.â These conversations donât require information, but an emotional connection. Iâm so happy about that, especially considering the never-ending torrent of garbage that we have to move through every day.
I think about politics. Politics online are rarely civil, but when you get someone in person, and start slowly, and are willing to have a conversation, you can normally get farther than you might expect.
Online culture isnât civil and thereâs a momentum to everything thatâs based on mind-fuckery. I know for myselfâas somebody who was relatively disinterested and uninformed about the functions of government and why politics and leadership make a differenceâthat people are perfectly willing to volunteer their brains to these strange flashpoint reactors that trigger them emotionally. People live by these black-and-white decisions. Itâs not good. We need to consider what we really know and how we know it and what weâre telling other people.
People are so empowered by garbage information thatâs being related in a relatively shallow way, which doesnât take into consideration the influence and context of the rest of our lives. Itâs sort of a disaster. I try to stay away from that stuff in terms of the conversations that Iâm having. Iâm trying to deal with something more human and experiential. Most people are regurgitating talking points on both sides without thinking of how someone feels and how to affect change. I got an interview with Geena Davis [who stars in the new season of GLOW] coming up, about her work with her foundation and her work in this documentary about women in show business. Itâs called This Changes Everything. I tell you man, when someoneâs that personally invested in something they believe in, and itâs righteous, and they lay it out for you and it makes sense, thatâs what heartens my belief in this possibility for change.
To change gears a bit, is it cathartic for you, as someone whoâs long been in recovery, to play characters whoâre either reformed or have drug issues?
Yeah, sure. Most obviously thereâs the last season of Maron, where my character has a relapse, which frankly didnât happen in real life. When you really understand the nature of addiction, and youâve seen it from the inside, and know the powerlessness and the struggle to live a life thatâs not in the throes of itâI mean, itâs such a common struggle. And whatâs amazing to me is how many people donât find a way out of that or donât seek help. Or are ashamed of it or donât know how to get the help. I never set out to do this, but Iâm thrilled and humbled by the effect my work has on people whoâre isolated by this sickness. Itâs really one of the more satisfying results of the podcast: how much mail I get from people whoâre struggling and who want advice, or who feel less alone from what Iâve said. The great thing about recovery, and about playing these parts, is that it gives you a context thatâs very specificâa way to legitimately help people that can change their entire lives.
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