Connect with us

Film

The Grainy Haze of Dreams: Movie Year 2006, and the Death and Rebirth of Cinema

Published

on

The Grainy Haze of Dreams: Movie Year 2006, and the Death and Rebirth of Cinema

1. CINEMA: DEAD AGAIN

MZS: We just came through a pretty tumultuous year for movies, and for the media and the entertainment industry in general. Although it’s not possible to cover everything, I’d like for us to at least touch on some of what I think were evolutionary highlights—moments, movements, trends or developments that altered movies, or how we perceive movies.

Right after the first of the year, David Denby tried to to get at a big part of this—specifically the effect of technological change—in his New Yorker piece “Big Pictures.” But it didn’t satisfy me. In fact, parts of it were so out-of-it that they reminded me of an old episode of Gilligan’s Island where the castaways run into a Japanese soldier who wanders out of the bushes where he’s been for 20 years not knowing that the war is over.

KU: “I went to LA, and here’s what I’m bringing back to you New Yorkers—the world is ending.” It’s the sort of thing I expect from him. I recall Jonathan Rosenbaum pointing out in his book Movie Wars that both Denby and David Thomson declared movies dead one week, and then, when L.A. Confidential came out, they resurrected them.

MZS: In fact, Denby, who was one of the guys I admired and read very closely coming up, has declared movies dead on more than one occasion. Declaring cinema dead is a favorite hobby of critics. Armond White’s done it, I’ve done it. Peter Rainer, who’s now at the Christian Science Monitor, did it back in 1998, when he reviewed Armageddon for the now-defunct Los Angeles New Times. But that’s the salient point here: Denby’s piece reads suspiciously like what Godfrey Cheshire would call a “Death of Cinema” piece. Even though the intent of this New Yorker article is supposedly to suss out how the delivery system that brings movies to us is changing, what really comes through is a kind of mourning for the way things used to be.

KU: If, indeed, things used to be the way he remembers. But Denby’s already made up his mind. His enthusiasm is in the past.

MZS: Writing about the experience of watching Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl on a video iPod, he writes:

Pirates has lots of wide vistas and noisy tumult—a vast ocean under the dazzling sun and nighttime roughhousing in colonial towns, with deep-cleavaged prostitutes and toothless drunks. What I saw, mainly, was a looming ship the size of a twig, patches of sparkling blue, and a face or a skull flashing by. The interiors were as dark as caves. My ears, fed by headphones, were filled with such details as the chafing of hawsers and feet stomping on straw, but there below me Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom were dueling like two angry mosquitoes in a jar.”

That’s a really funny description, but it fails to take into account what I like about watching movies on an iPod, which is that sense of intimacy. And yes, of course, when you’re dealing with something that includes a number of wide shots, an iPod is not the way to experience it. But there are compensations, and one of them is the sense of the movie being inside your head, which you can only get when you watch a movie with headphones on. And then, over and above that, there’s the idea of literally being able to hold a movie in the palm of your hand, which I think is just incredible. I think the thrill of that, the intimacy of that, really does compensate for the lack of scale. And I say that as somebody who loves the big screen experience, and who ten years ago never would have imagined myself saying something like that. But I do watch movies and television programs and other things on my iPod, and I enjoy it. It’s a different experience, it brings out different qualities in what you’re experiencing. Which is not to say it’s how I’d like to watch Lawrence of Arabia, because it’s not. But I’ve watched a lot of stuff on the train going to and from work, and loved it.

KU: Something I read a while ago that strikes me now is a piece on Titanic where the writer talked about how the film was shot so that it could be masked for both television and theatrical exhibition and not lose anything.

MZS: Right. James Cameron always shoots in Super 35mm, which has an image that’s 4×3 originally. But he simultaneously frames his movies in the viewfinder so that, for theaters, he can crop out a narrow, rectangular piece that matches the dimensions of CinemaScope, which has a 2:35 to 1 aspect ratio. So the whole time Cameron is shooting something, he’s simultaneously envisioning a movie that can be shown in a wide, narrow format in theaters and also on standard, squarish TV monitors, without losing what Cameron thinks is essential information. Basically, Cameron is making sure he can always cut a narrow rectangle out of an almost-square. As he shoots, he’s picturing his movie in two formats.

KU: It calls into question something you and I have often talked about, which is, “What is a true CinemaScope film and what is a mock ’Scope film?”

MZS: True CinemaScope horizontally squeezes a wide rectangular image into a more squarish frame of 35mm film. Then, when the movie is projected in theaters, a ’Scope lens in the projector will unsqueeze the image, to re-create that wide rectangular frame. True CinemaScope uses the entire film frame. But cropped Super 35mm only uses part of the frame, a rectangular swath of it. That swath is then squeezed during post-production and printed to film or DVD, then it’s unsqueezed again when you watch the movie. Aren’t we wandering far afield here?

KU: I was about to bring it back: You said you didn’t want to watch Lawrence of Arabia on an iPod, and no, you wouldn’t, because David Lean didn’t think to compose simultaneously for CinemaScope and also for an iPod.

MZS: Right.

KU: But I wonder, what is in directors’ heads today when they think about all the different modes of exhibition? What does that create in the product? Is it a detriment? Is it a positive? Is it all of these things at once?

MZS: Then you get into a really thorny area for classicists, perhaps an area they don’t want to go, which raises the question, “How critical is the aspect ratio of the frame to whatever it is that the filmmaker is trying to express?” And the obvious answer is, maybe it’s not as critical as we think. If, in fact, you can simultaneously compose for a theatrical print of CinemaScope dimensions and a 4×3 image that can show on a standard TV or an iPod, and preserve most of the information that you think is essential and not feel you’re compromising too much either way, then maybe the aspect ratio is not crucial.

And this brings us to what I’d really like to talk about: What do all of these technological changes, and the reaction against them by folks like Denby, tell us about the essence of cinema? What is the essence of cinema?

When Godfrey Cheshire wrote his “Death of Film/Decay of Cinema” article, one of the most important pieces of film criticism published in this country in the last 20 years, he identified not just what was happening, but what choices we were going to have to make as consumers and as patrons of the arts. And what he was getting at was that we need to rethink our frame of reference—we need to rethink our terms. He later gave an example in a review for the North Carolina Independent of Toy Story 2, which was created entirely without film, then printed to film for theaters, most of which did not yet have digital projection in 1999. In the review, Godfrey said that throughout his career, he’d habitually referred to any feature length motion picture as a film, and now felt he needed to break himself of that habit, so he made a point of referring to Toy Story 2 as a “movie,” because for Godfrey, the essence of cinema was bound up in film.

But now, is it? When we say “cinema,” do we mean film, and do we always necessarily have to mean film? And beyond that, do we have to mean all of the things that have traditionally been associated with film, namely a film projected in 35mm in a theater for a paying audience of strangers?

KU: I would say no. Film is where it all began. However, there have been all kinds of film used in production, and all types of film processing. Jacques Tati was one of the first people to use video for a feature, in his movie Parade (1974), though I’m willing to bet there are examples even before that.

It occurs to me that one of the problems with what you call “classicists”—especially in America, but probably abroad, too—is that, for them, the Hollywood model is the dominant model.

MZS: Let’s define what you mean by the Hollywood model.

KU: Narrative storytelling, genre, actors performing a plot—

MZS: Meaning a goal-directed narrative?

KU: A goal-directed narrative, a goal-oriented story. Something akin to that. And perhaps awards recognition can be brought into it as well—something that’s seen as the end result of all of that.

MZS: And when you talk about the Hollywood model, I assume you mean not just the movies that come out of Hollywood, but perhaps the cinema that comes out of other countries, which is often either aping Hollywood or attempting to react against Hollywood?

KU: What I’m talking about is the tendency of critics to hold Hollywood up as the high standard against which everything must be measured, even though they criticize it heavily nowadays and talk about how it’s not what it used to be. In this way, Rosenbaum was clearly onto something when he pointed out how Denby and Thomson declared movies dead and then used L.A. Confidential to resurrect them. I do my best not to be closed off to the potentialities of any motion picture: “Hollywood films”, “Foreign films”, “Avant-garde films”, “Home videos”—at a very basic, gut level these distinctions are anathema to me.

One of the greatest movies I’ve ever seen is Abbas Kiarostami’s Five Dedicated to Ozu, which is a five-sequence video. Funny, I was just reading The Hollywood Reporter review of the movie before you called, though I won’t deign to call it a review, because it’s basically just a snarky takedown of it. And then there was something on the blog too, where Sean Burns got on, and he was talking about Children of Men, and how shocked he was that you and I and some other people didn’t like it. “I thought this board was full of Brian De Palma apologists,” he said, and (the coup de grâce), “If the rest of us “squint really really hard” might Inland Empire look slightly less like it was photographed inside a toilet?”

MZS: Man, that hurt.

KU: Then Odie came back in another thread, “If Lynch pulled a Warhol, and shot three hours of my toes, scoring the “footage” to Nina Simone, critics would hail it a masterpiece because Lynch’s name was on it.” Myself, I think that if David Lynch’s name wasn’t on it, said “footage” would look, sound, and feel completely different.

What Inland Empire proves to me—a belief I’ve long held—is that the camera betrays the true intent of the person who’s using it. They can state their aims and goals but, as Spielberg has shown, stated aims don’t always hold water, which is why I wish he (and Tarantino, too), would just shut up some of the time. That’s one of the reasons I admire Terrence Malick so much, because he doesn’t speak—he just lets the movies talk for themselves. It’s also why I appreciate Robert Altman’s view of his movies as children that he’s nurtured up to a point before they just up and walk away from him. The point being, I think, that when a director’s name—or the name of whoever you consider the auteur—is on a film, they have created it, it’s unique to them and you have to deal with that.

2. FILM & VIDEO

MZS: In that spirit, let’s focus on a few movies that are undeniably expressions of a singular viewpoint, and that all have one conspicuous thing in common. I have an asterisk next to this moviegoing year, so there are probably a lot of movies that I should bring into this discussion that I can’t, but five of the movies that I saw this year that made a really, really strong impression on me were shot on video. And they are all movies where the fact that they were shot on video was intentional, and integral to what the movies are and what they wanted to achieve. Those five movies are Superman Returns, A Prairie Home Companion, Iraq in Fragments, Miami Vice and Inland Empire. They were shot with different types of equipment, different budget levels, different aims. I’d like to go through them one by one and try to get at what I think video brought to each movie.

In the case of Superman Returns, which was on the high end of the scale, shooting on high-definition video was a means to exercise tighter aesthetic control over a big-budget superhero movie, from the digital effects to the color scheme, and probably to keep costs down, though the budget on that movie was so enormous that I can’t imagine it saved them very much. I read a lot of reviews of that movie. Few of them mentioned that it was shot on video, which is a tangential issue that I’m not going to harp on too much, but it annoys the shit out of me that many critics who believe cinema equals film only point out that something was shot on video if they didn’t like it. If they did like it, they don’t deign to mention it in their review.

KU: Maybe they don’t notice it.

MZS: I’m not a mind-reader, and I wouldn’t presume to guess. But I do think that if you’re in that camp, you need to be consistent on this point and address it whenever it comes up, even if it means a throwaway parenthetical, because the alternative is hypocrisy. What we’re talking about here is the essence of cinema and whether film is what defines it. My point is, while Superman Returns is not that different in its style from many grandiose, imaginatively produced superhero pictures, what’s special about it can be somewhat traced back to the decision to shoot on high-def.

But then you get something like Robert Altman’s A Prairie Home Companion. In Altman on Altman, he talks throughout about how picture is not the most important thing. That’s a heretical thing for an auteur to be saying, but he says it over and over and over again in that book. He talks about how, when he was making McCabe & Mrs. Miller, he put multiple fog filters over the lens to degrade the image as much as possible. He wanted it to be murky, he wanted it to be hazy, he wanted it to be as difficult as possible to make out details. That was part of the aesthetic. Sound was more important to him than picture. Movement of people within the frame, and the seeming randomness of it, was more important to him than tight classical compositions. All of this stuff is very intentional, just as it was intentional for Cassavetes.

So it was not a shock to me at all when Altman gravitated toward video—first in the 80s with projects like Tanner ’88, then again with high definition when he shot The Company—he claimed it, loved it, shouted his love from the rooftops. In A Prairie Home Companion he uses it to cover rather than shoot his actors, to get in there with them in a way that’s very intimate even for him, to open up and explore a limited interior set in ways that remind me of the small films and the TV work that he did in the 80s, particularly play adaptations like The Dumbwaiter and The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial.

Then there’s Iraq in Fragments, which Steven Boone did a great job of explicating technically and aesthetically, and which achieved impressionistic, visionary effects with nonfiction footage that were likely only possible because the movie was shot on video. Obviously it’s the documentary filmmaker’s tool almost by default, because of cost, portability and relative unobtrusiveness, but there’s a powerful sensibility to that movie nonetheless.

I’m kind of moving up the chain here in order of the radical intent of the director, so the next one has to be Miami Vice. Michael Mann has often been criticized for being slick, particularly in the first half of his career, when he shot mostly with a single camera and micromanaged every frame, from the lighting to the décor. Supposedly he once re-shot an entire scene from The Insider because he didn’t like the tie a particular actor was wearing. But all in all, The Insider was looser and more spontaneous than anything he’d made before, and so was Ali, the first Mann film to use high-definition video in certain scenes, a fact that few critics noticed at the time. Robbery Homicide Division, Mann’s short-lived CBS show that was shot on high-def, was a natural outgrowth of the looser style of The Insider and Ali, and it predicted where he was going to go with Collateral, which mixed 35mm film and high-def video, and then Miami Vice, which was shot almost entirely on high-def.

On all three of these productions, Mann shot with multiple cameras, he used available light whenever possible, even during street scenes at night, and if somebody’s face was in shadow at a moment when they were saying something important, or if they were slightly out-of-focus as a result of the project being shot on the fly, he didn’t give a shit. In Miami Vice, which takes that approach further than anything he’s ever done, if there wasn’t enough light in the shot, he just cranked up the gain on the camera, which brings out detail but also increases the amount of grain in the image, which any professional DP will tell you you’re not supposed to do in a dramatic feature—and here’s what blows my mind: he left the grain in! There is software that can go through the finished cut of a movie, shot on film or video, and remove grain; there’s a way to make the texture consistent from shot to shot. Yet Mann apparently chose not to use it.

Detractors of Miami Vice sometimes complained that there were differing levels of grain from shot to shot, particularly in the night scenes. Well, put two and two together. If Michael Mann is a technical obsessive, which he certainly is, that stuff would not be in there if he didn’t want it to be in there—if he didn’t want you to notice it. And then next question is, why does he want you to notice it?

3. REMBRANDT’S CRAYONS

KU: I’d like to leap off from that to the David Lynch story that About.com critic Jürgen Fauth (aka “muckster”) posted on the blog, which is apropos of this. Following up on a discussion of whether Lynch’s use of consumer video was the movie equivalent of a painter trading oil for watercolor, Fauth wrote that mini-DV was

“…a different medium with different (blurrier) results, with its own aesthetic properties. It’s a choice….

Here’s what Lynch says about it in his upcoming book Catching the Big Fish, under the heading of “DV Quality”:

“The DV camera I currently use is a Sony PD-150, which is a lower quality than HD. And I love this lower quality. I love the small cameras.

“The quality reminds me of the films of the 1930s. In the early days, the emulsion wasn’t so good, so there was less information on the screen. The Sony PD result is a bit like that; it’s nowhere near hi-def. And sometimes, in a frame, if there’s some question about what you’re seeing, or some dark corner, the mind can go dreaming. If everything is crystal clear in that frame, that’s what it is—that’s all it is.

“And high-def, unfortunately, is so crystal clear. I saw a piece of film on the screen in my mixing room shot in high-def; it was some kind of science fiction. And in the background I could see wood screws in what was supposed to be a metal console. It’s going to be far more difficult to build sets for high-def film.”

If you look on YouTube, you’ll see a short that Lynch made before embarking on Inland Empire, featuring some of the same supporting cast. It’s called “Room to Dream.”

MZS: Right.

KU: It’s his video experiment. Eric Rohmer collaborated on a similar short right before he embarked on his own digital production, The Lady and the Duke—that was called La Cambrure (The Curve), and it’s on the Criterion Moral Tales box set. “Room to Dream,” I think, is a great title, because what it’s suggesting—and what some of the Inland Empire interviews with Lynch suggest as well—is that he used the Sony PD-150 because the blotchiness and the darkness of certain areas of the image make people wonder what’s going on there. It’s like you can’t see that part of the frame. It’s imperfect. Room to dream.

MZS: It’s imperfect, and that’s particularly noticeable in wide shots. It’s telling to me that so many people who did not like the movie hammered Lynch for the lack of resolution in the image. Here again, though, we have to ask ourselves, “David Lynch, who is as much a technical perfectionist as Michael Mann, and absolutely as anal as it gets when it comes to composition and lighting, decided to shoot with about the lowest end prosumer video camera, the workhorse of the independent documentary filmmaker—why did he do it?”

KU: Not for the same reasons, I think, that Gary Winick set up the company InDiGent: to essentially make movies on video that they couldn’t afford to make on film. There were more economic reasons behind that decision. With Lynch, I think it was an intentional artistic choice.

MZS: It was an intentional artistic choice. If he’d wanted to, he could have shot on high def. That would have solved the so-called resolution problems and given him some of the freedom that he wanted, but not all of it, because the lighting would need to be subtler and the camera would have to be bigger. He wouldn’t have been able to—and here’s that phrase again—hold it in his hand.

KU: It’s interesting, of course, that both the means of capturing the image and the means of viewing the image can be held in your hand.

MZS: That’s right. You can stand there with your actors and show their work to them almost instantly on the camera’s flip-out monitor without even waiting for a playback from a video tap, which is what they’d use to check their work on film shoots. That not only lends a sense of intimacy and momentum that doesn’t exist on film shoots, or even high-def shoots, it encourages a more free-flowing collaboration between the directors and the actors, who are more likely to suggest dramatic changes in a scene or a sequence knowing that it won’t be quite as time-consuming or expensive to change things up as it would have been on a film shoot.

I want to come back to the lack of resolution, though, because I think it’s a make-or-break proposition in Inland Empire. What are the things that lack of resolution does for Inland Empire? Chief among them is that it lends a certain haziness, an indistinctness, to the entire movie. For me, Inland Empire comes closer to the sensation of remembering a dream than any movie I’ve ever seen in my life. And I’m not talking about the act of dreaming, which none of us can truthfully testify to, because all we have to go on is our memory when we’re awake, and that’s always hazy. We may describe a dream as “intense,” but what are we talking about? Not necessarily the visuals. More likely the emotions, which we’re also remembering later, not experiencing present-tense. For me, I find that when I try to recall a dream, certain images are a little bit fuzzy and, on top of that, they may take on the form and the look of whatever media I was experiencing before I went to sleep: movies, television, etc.

Lynch understands this. When he puts dots over people’s faces so that you don’t quite know who you’re seeing or what they’re involved in, or when the movie’s lack of resolution reminds you of surveillance footage or a homemade porn tape, or a reality TV show—there are scenes following Laura Dern in and around her house that intentionally seem designed to recall reality TV shows—this, too, is intentional.

KU: I think we should discuss something you pointed out to me, which is that Inland Empire was not simply shot and then projected on video. It was shot on video and then transferred to film.

MZS: That’s right. There are qualities to Inland Empire that cannot be produced by film alone, that cannot be produced simply by projecting video directly onto a screen. You can only achieve them by combining film and video. Lynch knows this, too; there are hues and textures in Inland Empire that I’ve never seen before in any movie, film or video. He’s not just pushing the properties of film or video, he’s pushing both of them, to see what he can come up with. I’m curious to see, when this movie comes on DVD, if it’s going to be a transfer of the film print of the video, or if it’s going to be a straight transfer of the video itself, without the intercession of film. Knowing Lynch, I suspect it’s going to be the former.

KU: Video and film together.

MZS: Yeah. I think so. A film print of the video. The filmmaker Greg Pak, who has a great site called Film Help.com, has written quite extensively about film-to-video transfer. On the post-production menu of the site, there a useful “Case study” of transferring Pak’s Mini-DV feature Robot Stories to 35mm film. Pak talks about the chemical process of exposing film—how no matter what you’re putting on celluloid, even if it’s a record of a video image, the celluloid itself somehow alchemizes the image. Pak writes:

“Transferring to film gave the black parts of the images true blackness. So I found that when watching close-ups of characters, I could lose myself in their eyes. I wasn’t looking at the image; I was looking into it.”

The process brings out things that were not visible to you when you were just looking at it on a tape. It’s almost like it fills in the blanks to the degree that it can. And it makes the result a hybrid. It’s not film, it’s not video, it’s something else.

Lynch will, I’m sure, shoot again on video. He’ll probably, despite his statements to the contrary, shoot again on film as well. Either way, it’s important to talk about this stuff, because when you do, you can’t help getting pulled away from the old binary distinctions: either video or film. You also force yourself not to take the word “medium” for granted when having these sorts of discussions.

When people talk about the “medium” of cinema, it’s understood that they’re talking about celluloid. But I think the word “medium” confuses the issue because there are two different ways to look at the word “medium.” We can take it to mean the actual substance that is used to fix a work of art, whether it’s celluloid or, say, oil paint, or watercolor. Or we can talk about a means of transmitting ideas—in which case what we’re talking about isn’t the physical substance of film, but the language of film, the language of cinema.

When I use the word “medium” to describe cinema, I’m talking about a visual language in which shots and cuts are used to tell a story or convey an idea or emotion. I’m not talking about the physical substance of celluloid. To think that the essence of cinema is bound up in celluloid is a mistake, one that we’re going to look back on in 20 years and think that we were very retrograde to have embraced. To me it’s a semantic blunder that leads to a conceptual one. It’s like saying the essence of literature is paper or, more precisely, that the essence of visual art is oil painting. The essence of visual art is not oil painting; the essence of visual art is visual art. Visual art can be made of oil paint, or it can be crayon. In the case of Inland Empire, Rembrandt decided to work with crayons.

KU: As far as painting goes, we’re always told that there is a historically recorded Renaissance, and I wonder if—towards the end of that period, whenever people decided it was—there were a bunch of “Death of Painting” treatises? And of course, did painting die? No. It’s still ongoing, which suggests to me that movies will continue as well, in a variety of forms and formats.

MZS: It may be possible that what we perceive as death is in fact just one stage in our evolution. I don’t think that the current establishment of critics whose tastes and opinions were formed in the ‘60s and ‘70s are going to rush to embrace this notion. And there are a lot of younger critics who I think adhere to that school of thought as well—Mike D’Angelo, for instance, who’s about my age, and with whom I’ve argued this topic. His enthusiasm for Sin City notwithstanding, he’s very much a “celluloid equals cinema” type of guy.

Such preconceived notions are only natural considering that for the first 100 years of its existence, cinema was a story recorded on celluloid, shown in a dark theater to a paid audience of strangers. The generation that was born after 1980 does not automatically equate that with cinema. They grew up with videotape. They grew up with cable television and later with DVDs. They are used to popular entertainment, moving pictures, being available to them in a form that they can hold in their hands, a form that they can put in their backpack, in their pocket, or load up on their computer. They don’t have any less appreciation for the language of cinema than their elders—they’re just not encumbered by the preconceived notions.

4. PARADIGMS LOST

KU: You talked about the establishment having a certain view. I question myself if the alternatives to the establishment are even living up to their “alternativeness,” for lack of a better descriptor, in discussing these issues. I feel terms like “establishment” and “alternative” are a somewhat antiquated product of the ‘60s and ‘70s that have managed to persist and linger. I wonder if that dichotomy is more harmful now.

MZS: Well, it is. It’s a little embarrassing at this point to still be debating the issue of whether or not a movie is less of a movie because it was shot with a camcorder; and whether television can be art; and whether series television is inherently less worthy of attention than, say, your typical mainstream Hollywood genre film. People who catch themselves talking in those terms should cringe and correct themselves, because it’s 20th century thinking.

KU: I think this connects to the Caveh Zahedi thing I keep mentioning to you, that back-and-forth on Zahedi’s blog between the filmmaker and Nathan Lee, who reviewed Zahedi’s movie I Am a Sex Addict for The New York Times. Lee categorized the film as a “minor triumph of sincerity,” which Zahedi interpreted as meaning that his movie was a minor work. In their exchange, Lee clarified, “’A minor triumph of sincerity’ was not meant as a backhanded compliment. ’Triumph’ isn’t a word I use lightly, modified or not. There is a triumphant quality to your cine-confession (no small feat), the defining quality of which I take to be sincerity. ’Major,’ however, the film is not (in my estimation), and a step too close to lazy blurb whoring. I hedged the phrase to calibrate my opinion with exactitude, not superiority.’”

Later, Zahedi came back with this:

“As for the major/minor thing, it all depends on what one values in a film. What do you, personally, consider major?

“For me, what constitutes a major as opposed to a minor work is something that embodies a paradigm shift. It has very little to do with a certain notion of quality or craft. Warhol embodies, it seems to me, a very radical paradigm shift, whereas the quality or craft of his films is arguably quite low. Spielberg is, I think, a minor artist, because despite the undeniable quality and craft of his films, none of them embody a truly radical paradigm shift. This is why Godard is a major filmmaker and Chabrol a minor one, or why Weerasethakul is a major filmmaker and Ang Lee a minor one, despite his obvious talent.

“The reason I disagree with you on the major/minor issue is because I believe that my films, despite their undeniable weaknesses and limitations, embody a paradigm shift.

“John Pierson once said of one of my films: “I don’t even know if one can call it a film.” This hurt my feelings at the time, but looking back on it, I think it was a great compliment.

“The problem with any paradigm shift is that it is inevitably seen through the misprision of the previous operative paradigm, and is thus inevitably misread.

“This was true of Warhol’s films, certainly, but also, to a lesser extent, of the films of Godard and Weerasethakul.

“My contention is that you do not in fact really and truly understand my film because despite your perspicaciousness, you are still seeing it through the looking glass of a previous paradigm, and the film represents something paradigmatically new in the cinematic landscape, something for which there are not yet any viable categories.”

I think the paradigm shift Zahedi mentions is of crucial importance. As critics, as viewers, as fellow artists, if we’re talking about minor and major works, then we’re missing something.

MZS: That’s true. It’s like when Altman accepted his honorary Oscar last year and said, “To me, I’ve just made one long film.”

This all feeds into the idea of a continuity of experience that occurs on two sides of the realm—in the life of the artist and in the hearts of the spectator. That continuum, I think, has become increasingly clear with the explosion of Internet film criticism. What you see when you read Internet film criticism is criticism that is not constrained by word count. You don’t have to cram it into 30 or 60 seconds or less, like a lot of TV-based reviewers do. The presence or absence of a still picture illustrating the text, or the decision to run the piece on the front of the section versus inside—none of this stuff has any bearing anymore, it’s all about the content of the piece. Not only can you go long if you want, you can do multiple posts on the same film, or on the same director. You can write about a movie that’s 30 or 40 years old and connect it to something today, and nobody can say boo to you. You can illustrate your essay with frame grabs, to indicate visually exactly what it is that you’re talking about. Or you can refer readers to YouTube if there’s a relevant clip up there. Or if you have a lot of server space you can pull your own clip and hope the studio doesn’t sue you.

What we’re talking about here is an ever-evolving experience of media. You don’t so much consume it as dip into it. It has no beginning. It has no end. It has no past. It has no future. It is in that continuous present that you talked about in your Miami Vice review. For an internet critic like, say, Dennis Cozzalio, an old film directed by Robert Aldrich and the new Peter Jackson version of King Kong are equally present-tense. Dennis is a little bit older than me—he just has the reckless adventurousness of a college kid in this respect. Internet-based criticism doesn’t just encourage this type of thinking, it demands it. To be an Internet-based critic is to be free of previous paradigms—except the new ones that you can’t see right now, because you and other Internet critics are actively in the process of constructing them.

5. CANON FODDER

KU: Your saying that reminds me of something I read in the Rosenbaum/Adrian Martin-edited book Movie Mutations, where Rosenbaum said, “… a big stage in my education about Iran was learning from Mehrnaz Saeed-Vafa how Bresson could speak directly to the experience of post-revolutionary Iran—not only in A Man Escaped (1956), which deals directly with the French Occupation and Resistance, but more generally through the notion of souls in hiding.” I think that touches on what you’re getting at with the eternal present idea: movies are not just enslaved to the periods in which they come out in.

MZS: Right, and that automatically strikes a major blow to the idea of a hierarchy or a canon.

KU: Did you read Paul Schrader’s canon article in Film Comment?

MZS: I did.

KU: And how did you feel about that?

MZS: I think Paul Schrader needs to get out more.

KU: (laughs) Well I guess that pretty much settles it. Ryland Knight and I were talking about it. He disagreed with a lot of what Schrader had to say, but he felt that it was intentionally written as something that would spark debate, and so on that level it was worthy of consideration.

MZS: I think any critic who provokes an argument or discussion is doing at least part of their job right so, yeah, I commend Schrader for that, but again we’re talking about, to borrow Zahedi’s phrasing, a filmmaker viewing new paradigms through the lens of what he’s always known. I mean, this is a guy who has very eclectic tastes in genres and in periods, but when you look at his picks for the Schrader canon, we’re still talking for the most part about classical narrative models.

KU: And we’re losing people like Stan Brakhage and Andy Warhol.

MZS: And we’re implicitly excluding filmmakers who do radical things within the context of formats that are quite well-established. Circling back to where we were a minute ago, I think that to have been made within the commercial exhibition system, Miami Vice and Inland Empire are, hands down, the two most radical works of popular culture to have appeared on American screens in 2006. Nothing else comes close.

On this wonderful blog called “My Five Year Plan”, the film critic Brendon Bouzard suggests how—and you kinda got at some of this in your review, too—that in Mann’s films, the basic aesthetic unit is not the scene, not the sequence, not the shot, but the moment. The moment can be defined as that wonderful cutaway of those kids’ legs passing in front of the hubcap when Crockett and Isabella are obliquely discussing their future. Or it can be the final shootout, which I believe clocks in at eight or so minutes; that whole sequence counts as a moment in my book. I’m talking about an attempt to obliterate traditional concepts of time, traditional concepts of a storytelling unit or of a three-act structure or of an arc or of a goal-directed narrative or even an idea of an individual, discrete personality that’s not an extension of the environment. You know how in Mann, as in Malick’s films, and as in Wong Kar-wai’s films, the universe seems to be flowing in and out of these characters, and kind of jerking them around like puppets on a string? This is not an arbitrary, “artsy” storytelling tic. It’s a philosophical position. It’s an artist’s direct response to cultural and technological changes that are happening all over the world, changes that are altering not just the means by which we experience and evaluate popular entertainment, but the thought processes by which we define ourselves as individuals and as a species.

Picking Miami Vice as his #1 movie of 2006, Bouzard writes:

Miami Vice is an absolutely critical work on the nature of identity in a globalizing society…Form and function offer perfect balance—the slickness, the flatness of the film’s digital compositions—the way the infinite expanses of Miami skyline captured by Dion Beebe’s ViperStream cameras seem to recede into palpable abandon. Are we all surface? Is there any inner life to be found anymore, or are we crude automatons? How do we find our own redemption?”

He goes on to write:

“It’s the only film of the year that truly attempts (and succeeds) in bargaining new syntactical approaches to cinematic language. It moves so far beyond the formal confines of its genre and mode of production that it feels entirely rare—this is the movie Mann has spent his entire career moving toward, [and was] only able to produce because of past successes. Never again will he be granted as much freedom as he is here, and he knows it—he uses every frame of the film, every beat, to flesh out an entirely self-contained universe teetering between surrealism and brutalism. Miami Vice is the most exploratory and revolutionary work of its year. And it’s my favorite. I’m consumed by it emotionally and enthralled by its explosive energies.”

These are all very valid and very important things to be getting at, and the fact that Mann is doing it in the cops ’n’ robbers movie is mind-boggling. We’re moving beyond geography, beyond space, beyond time, beyond race and ethnicity. Nobody knows where we’re going, but in their own way, movies like Miami Vice are reflecting the collective journey. They’re not just regurgitating the same structures, the same assumptions.

KU: You’re talking about movies made in the Hollywood model, the popular culture model, that are avant-garde in various ways. I know you have a great deal of love right now for The Good Shepherd, so where does that fit in?

MZS: Well, The Good Shepherd is an oil painting. And I love me some good oil paintings. I know it’s a cliche and every fucking critic in the country has probably said it by this point, but it’s the truth: it’s a Godfather movie. And it’s about the unacknowledged, invisible upper layer of our world, the true ruling class in this country, which is propertied WASP males and the institutions they’ve constructed around themselves. That is a hierarchy that has eroded somewhat over the decades, but that’s still essentially running things. The fact that this movie gets at it—and gets at the idea of an ethnic and class pecking order, and a gender pecking order, and a geographical pecking order, and insists that these are all facts of life that are going to erode slowly, if at all—is as impressive in its own way as Miami Vice and Inland Empire, which are much more radical in their form.

KU: So there needs to be room for films that are advancing things aesthetically. But is The Good Shepherd advancing things or is it adhering to something that’s already been done, but doing it very well?

MZS: I think it’s the latter. But at the same time it does kind of circle back around to what we’re talking about, which is the idea of time, of historical periods, of discreet chapters in American history being arbitrary markers that are often enforced in order to get us to forget, to put things behind us, to believe that a certain era was different than the one we’re living in now. That’s what I mean when I say that this a politically radical movie, for a mainstream movie. It’s about what happened in a particular era, but it’s also about what keeps happening. It’s not about what’s changed, it’s about what’s never changed. Stylistically, it’s not even as adventurous as, say, The Battle of Algiers or Army of Shadows, but to be a $60 or $70 million Hollywood movie chock full of stars, playing in multiplexes all over North America, it’s mad crazy 1975 radical.

KU: Let’s bring this around to distribution. Does The Good Shepherd only work within the context of the Hollywood business model context, the multiplex model, or as a personal experience? Do you feel that it would work as well on your iPod?

MZS: I think it would, because so much of the story is told through juxtaposition of shots, many of them are close-ups, and also it’s a heavily-narrated movie—a lot of the information is conveyed through dialogue. So yes, I think it would probably work on an iPod. Something essential would be lost because the photography is so dark, and so far the iPod does not handle high contrast very well. Gordon Willis is fucked on an iPod.

But to answer what I think is your larger question, no, I would never say that a work is inherently less worthy of note because it doesn’t advance the ball aesthetically for cinema, whatever we define that to mean. But I do think that there needs to be a level playing field. And I think that there is an unfortunate, in some cases almost unconscious strain of thought in criticism in this country that penalizes people who take risks with form of any kind, who deviate in any way from the classical Hollywood model, however you define it. In Miami Vice there were complaints that the characters were thinly drawn and that the story was hard to follow, and that there was a lot of time spent on things that didn’t advance the plot. To which I respond, “Yes, and so what?” Let’s not penalize risotto for not being a cheeseburger.

Again we come back to the intent of the artists. When you engage with any work of art, particularly a work of art that’s trying to do something even marginally different from what’s come before, you first have to meet the artist on his terms, not yours, and ask yourself what is the artist trying, intentionally, to do here. Why are they making the choices they’re making? Is it a happy or unhappy accident? Is it incompetence? Or is there perhaps a conscious aesthetic strategy? That’s why I bring up the deliberate mismatching of grain in night shots in Miami Vice and the fact that there are some important scenes between characters in that movie where the focus on one of them is slightly soft. In addition to the other things Bouzard lays out in his writing on the movie, Mann is calling your attention to the video-ness of video. It’s like he is trying to undermine, in some cases even destroy, our assumptions about what a good movie is, in order to reveal that there is more to a good movie than a nice crane shot or a kind of classical mise en scène, or a three-act structure, or a goal-directed narrative about a hero’s progress.

6. NEW CARRIAGES, OLD ROADS

KU: Where did this idea of the classical narrative come from? Is it traceable back to Griffith? Is it really a product of the studio system? Are people too influenced by ‘70s filmmaking at this point?

MZS: No I don’t think so. But people who hold up the Boomers’ formative moviegoing years as the aesthetic peak of filmmaking conveniently forget that most of the ‘70s movies that we know and love were basically classically structured, linear narratives. There are certain exceptions to that—off the top of my head, some of Antonioni’s work, 2001, All That Jazz, that wonderful Stanley Donen picture Two for the Road, Point Blank. I know you could cite a lot more examples. Still, many of the movies that we think of as highlights of ‘60s and ‘70s and early ‘80s cinema, including work by Spielberg and Scorsese and Coppola and Hal Ashby and Arthur Penn and other giants, are, by the standards of Miami Vice or Inland Empire, pretty conservatively directed. Most of them even have a neatly regimented three-act structure that Syd Field could teach in a class.

This is not to denigrate those films in any way—a lot of them are great, great movies—but rather to suggest that there’s more than one way to skin a cat, and the cat’s been skinned mostly one way for so long, and critics have been explicitly or implicitly sending the message that there’s only one way, that a lot of viewers out there have absolutely no idea that there are alternatives, however modest. These great ‘60s and ‘70s and early ‘80s movies I’m talking about were products of the same mindset as films from Hollywood’s so-called Golden Age, the 1940s. They’re products of the very same mindset that made movies possible as a popular phenomenon—which is to say, an assembly line mindset, characteristic of a wealthy, industrialized nation. Filmmakers who worked outside the system had to try to either adhere to that model or fight against it and define themselves in opposition to it—and that was never easy.

There was a New York Times Magazine story many years ago about how standards are established. It was about why Microsoft’s computer operating system was the dominant one at the time. Along the way it talked about why roads were a particular width. I really fixated on this part of the article because it explained so much more than roads. All over the world, the article said, roads are more or less the same width, and they’ve been the same width as long as there have been automobiles. Before that, they were the same width when there were horses and wagons being drawn on them. The standard width of a road goes back to the construction of the earliest roads thousands of years ago. They were built wide enough to accommodate one wagon—or for a major thoroughfare, two wagons, one going in each direction. Because the underlying structures of transportation had been decided upon and literally laid down, any future upgrades of roads, and any future innovations in transportation technology, had to take the standards into account, because it was simply too expensive and too bothersome and too mindblowing to redefine what a road was. All these factors combined to make it impossible for a person to just wake up one morning and suddenly say, “I think I want to make a carriage that’s one meter wider than the norm.” If you do that, you’re not gonna be able to drive on the road.

These are the same realities that have governed filmmaking, commercial filmmaking, all over the world for a hundred years. The technical, material and aesthetic standards have been laid down. The industry, the media and audiences are all used to them. If, so to speak, you decide to design a car that doesn’t fit on the road, or perhaps a vehicle that’s not designed to drive on roads at all, you pay the price. If, like Zahedi, you make a movie that embodies a paradigm shift, however minor, it’s harder to convince people to loan you money to make it, it’s harder to shoot it and finish it, it’s harder to sell it to distributors, it’s harder to get it mentioned in the media, and it’s harder to get it seen.

KU: Although the boundaries seem to be breaking. It’s like the knife has been slipped in without a lot of people even realizing it. Miami Vice is, I think, an avant-garde movie and it’s bankrolled and made in a commercial context, which is rather incredible. But there are probably a lot of examples of that. It’s also knocking down ideas about plot, and how plot functions within a movie, asking if the story needs to come to a completely satisfying end. Maybe the fact that the story falls apart can be part of what makes a movie great. This is the case, to my mind, with The Black Dahlia. There, as in much of James Ellroy’s fiction, the plot tends to get lost, but because the plot gets lost the lead character or characters come to the forefront.

MZS: Well, form ought to always follow function, and I think form absolutely follows function in that movie. The Black Dahlia is another movie that I would call radical, because the function of the movie is to tell a story from a singular point of view, literally from inside the head of this character of Bucky Bleichert (Josh Hartnett). And it’s a story that’s colored not just by Bucky’s emotions in the moment as he experiences those events for the first time, but also as he recollects them later. He’s revising his own feelings towards his experiences as he tells us the story, and that accounts for the movie’s shifts in tone within a sequence or scene or even within a particular shot. It accounts for the shifts in style, and in some cases the ellipses in the narrative. Those are qualities that The Black Dahlia has common with Miami Vice and INLAND EMPIRE: they all find ways to obliterate our sense of time and space. They all take place in what you’ve called “a perpetual present,” where everything from narrative to emotion to our sense of time itself is in a constant state of flux.

KU: Both novel and film are set up as stories that the Bleichert character feels can be resolved. The ultimate tragedy—if you want to call it a tragedy (maybe it’s a triumph, or maybe it’s both simultaneously)—is that he realizes it can’t be resolved. Everything he knows is a quagmire and clusterfuck that he, and we, just have to navigate.

MZS: Right, or as Ellroy is fond of saying, “Closure is bullshit.” And I think if you put Miami Vice and INLAND EMPIRE and The Black Dahlia on a triple bill, in many ways they’d feel like brothers—or sisters, as the case may be. Certainly there’s no substitute for a neat, efficient forward-moving, well-told story. I love the Coen Brothers and{C}—with a couple of exceptions{C}—that’s all they make. Hitchcock only makes that kind of movie, for the most part, and when he doesn’t{C}—for example, Psycho{C}—boy do you notice. But it bugs me that what is arguably, in its overall aesthetic, De Palma’s most radical, big-budget movie got basically bitch-slapped in this country. There was a similar critical befuddlement—not universal, but pretty widespread—over Miami Vice. Even a lot of the reviews that liked it dismissed it as a glamorous, empty-headed fashion show, and didn’t take any notice of the filmmaking or what Mann might be trying to say with it.

KU: I find that when I watch these video films, or video movies, that are coming out, my feelings and emotions are engaged in ways that I haven’t experienced before, that are really very new to me, and I’m loving navigating it. I think what critics need to have is a curiosity about every era that they are going through. I also believe that with each piece you write, you need to reinvent the wheel. To take account of where you are in the world and where the world is in relation to you. I don’t think Denby did that in his New Yorker piece. I think he was trying to be a reporter, in the sense of, “I go out and I interview people, and I use their quotes to support something that I’ve believed since 1980.” You know what? I’m gonna say 1977, because I see he mentions Star Wars in the article as another divisive marker, and I think that needs to stop. The idea that Star Wars killed the movies is ridiculous.

MZS: If you go back and look at Star Wars now, it looks as classical as Casablanca. It seems slow, square and linear. At the time there were criticisms that it was too fast, too shallow, not interested in character. These criticisms were leveled against Spielberg’s movies in the ‘70s as well.

7. “I CAN’T WAIT TO GET HOME AND CHOP SOME WOOD.”

KU: Bringing it back to Lynch, I think that before INLAND EMPIRE, his best movie was Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me. That was so insanely radical for the medium of film, and I think with INLAND EMPIRE he has just gone into some kind of new stratosphere.

MZS: None of us have caught up to Lynch yet. And why do you think he seems to be in such a great mood? He fuckin’ knows it.

KU: But I don’t get the sense that he lords it over everyone. I think he genuinely, selflessly wants people to come to where he is.

MZS: I think so too. He has a very generous spirit.

KU: I often think of a video I saw on his Transcendental Meditation site where he was being introduced at a seminar by a friend of his who said (paraphrased), “I was riding in the car with David just the other day. He turned to me at one point and said, ’You know, I really can’t wait to get home and chop some wood.’ And I asked, ’What do you mean, David?’ And he said, ’What do you mean, what do I mean? I can’t wait to get home and chop some wood.’”

MZS: (hysterical laughter) Well that’s about as in the moment as you can get.

KU: He wants to chop some wood. You know that’s the kind of mindset that I admire and try to emulate—the simple pleasures and profundities.

MZS: I want to double back on something that you mentioned, when you talked about how you find that movies shot on video seem to be more engaging or more intimate in some way. I have to think a lot of that is because the camera doesn’t just record light, it records emotion. And any professional actor who has worked on a traditional film shoot and then worked on a run-’n’-gun movie that was shot on video will tell you that it’s more exciting to work on video because there’s less of a machine rumbling along. There’s less money at stake. There are fewer people standing over your shoulder. The collaboration between the director and the cast is more intimate, more spontaneous, and it’s just more open. It’s very spontaneous, and I think that sense of immediacy that you get is because they’re in the moment, truly in the moment, and they’re not thinking, “Holy shit, I’ve got three tries to get this right, otherwise we blow our day.” I wonder if that sense of freedom and excitement isn’t somehow captured in the images themselves.

KU: But let’s bring that back to something like Superman Returns, which cost upwards of $180 million, but was shot on video. Is that an example of video trying to be film? Or do you think that that also has a hit-’n’-run kind of quality?

MZS: Oh certainly not, because there were so many special effects involved that that thing had to be planned down to the millisecond.

KU: Just because you shoot on video doesn’t necessarily mean that it is a hit and run thing. To me, it’s another choice on the artist’s palette.

MZS: It is another choice on the palette. And it’s a much more economically and logistically friendly choice, for almost every filmmaker. And I think as resolution improves{C}—and here’s another thing that the cinema-equals-film adherents are just gonna have to face up to—as the hi-definition video image keeps improving, and as the process of editing and manipulating the image becomes more sophisticated, directors are going to be able to simulate any kind of film stock that they want. It’s a matter of time. Right now you can go through Photoshop and make a digital picture that you shot last week look like an 1880s Matthew Brady photograph, and if you’re not somebody who’s spent time in a darkroom, you’d never know. A synthesizer can call up sampled horns—stored recordings of actual brass—and create a new sequence that is actually made with real horns, but assembled in a computer, and who the fuck would know it’s not “real,” except for an audio engineer? Eventually{C}—I don’t know when, but could be five years, could be 10, could be 20—post-production software will be able to do an incredible simulation of film with digital video, if that’s what the director wants. You’ll be able to choose what speed film you want, whether it’s Kodak or Fuji, and whether the film is fresh out of the can or if it’s damaged from sitting in the trunk of somebody’s car for ten years.

KU: But do you think that maybe we do know subconsciously with certain of these things? Can we really be fooled that it’s not film?

MZS: Well, possibly—if we’re looking for tell-tale signs. I think you can still make a case that vinyl sounds warmer than a CD. There are still people who can distinguish the sound of a digital recording of a scratchy vinyl record from the actual record being played. After a point, though, such distinctions become interesting mainly to technical obsessives, because the essence of the work lies elsewhere. On CD, the sound quality is so amazing{C}—so deep and so subtle in ways that elude vinyl{C}—that in a general sense, you gotta give the edge to CDs. And over and above that, these distinctions are academic, because you don’t have a choice. Unless you’re a band that wants to make a vanity statement by putting something out on vinyl or perhaps hoping that a DJ will pick it up and use it in a club, there’s absolutely no reason to record anything to vinyl, and everybody knows that. It’s a nostalgic act, and you know what? The listeners don’t care anymore. You can treat that as a tragedy if you want, or you can simply accept it as a fact, and realize there is more to music than the substance it’s recorded on.

KU: So comes a point where it’s better to accept the mutation, to deal with it and move on?

MZS: Yeah. And I don’t think our accepting it or rejecting it makes any difference to the mutation. I mean, we don’t really have a say in this. No one ever had a say in it. We don’t need to be worrying about this so much because when we talk about cinema, we’re not talking about a substance, we are talking about a language. And what can you do with a language? You can do whatever you want.

Matt Zoller Seitz is editor-in-chief and publisher of The House Next Door, a contributor to the The New York Times film section, and a former columnist for NYPress and The Star-Ledger. Keith Uhlich is managing editor of The House Next Door, a staff critic for Slant Magazine, and a contributor to a variety of print and online publications.

We’re committed to keeping our content free and accessible—meaning no paywalls or subscription fees—so if you like what we do, please consider becoming a SLANT patron:
Advertisement
Comments

Features

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.

Published

on

Demolition Girl
Photo: Japan Cuts

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 year’s recipient of the festival’s Cut Above award, which is given to a defining figure of Japan’s 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 Matsugami’s 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 mother’s 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 Cocoa’s father (Yota Kawase) has some money on hand, he yearns for instant satisfaction, spending it on expensive sushi. As for Cocoa, who’s isolation is emphasized through shots that see her alone in corridors, or studying late at night in her room, it’s almost as if she’s destined to fail. And, indeed, when her school finds out about the adult videos she’s 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: “You wouldn’t understand, you’re rich, you wouldn’t know. Will you pay for my expenses?” In this moment, Kitai’s triumph is making her character’s 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 Shōta Sometani). Both work crappy jobs, and they try to stay sane through copious amounts of drinking and pointed mockery of the economically fraught lot they’ve been handed in life. The protagonist’s 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 protagonist’s co-workers, Sachiko (Shizuka Ishibashi), brings some solace to the men’s lives. There’s 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. Miyake’s style is relaxed, almost as if his camera has absorbed everyone’s 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 she’s going to regret her purchase. Miyake’s gaze is empathetic, and there’s 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 Nagayama’s 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 café that will only sell natural and locally grown products. At the start of the film, the still-grieving Taka doesn’t 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 he’s trapped within.

The film’s 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 that’s 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 it’s 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 it’s 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 19—28.

We’re committed to keeping our content free and accessible—meaning no paywalls or subscription fees—so if you like what we do, please consider becoming a SLANT patron:
Continue Reading

Film

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 doesn’t have the time left to begin making up for them.

2.5

Published

on

David Crosby: Remember My Name
Photo: Sony Pictures Classics

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. It’s 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 he’s 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 musician’s brain, A.J. Eaton’s David Crosby: Remember My Name opens with a fairly standard music-doc overview that traces Crosby’s productive early years with the Byrds and his ascent to fame with both iterations of Crosby, Stills & Nash. There’s no effort made to hide Crosby’s 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 Crosby’s 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 he’s 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 “insufferable” 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 he’s 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 doesn’t 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

We’re committed to keeping our content free and accessible—meaning no paywalls or subscription fees—so if you like what we do, please consider becoming a SLANT patron:
Continue Reading

Film

Review: Cassandro, the Exotico! Shoulders the Strange Burden of Empathy

Marie Losier’s empathy, if not love, for Cassandro hinders her from examining his wounds with much depth.

2.5

Published

on

Cassandro, the Exotico!
Photo: Film Movement

Queerness isn’t just about the relationship between bodies: the ones we desire, the ones that will never desire us back, the ones we wished we possessed. It’s 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 Cassandro’s textile-informed camp isn’t compensated by violent machismo or a heterosexist mise-en-scène. Instead, this exótico 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, né Saúl Armendáriz, is, then, a ready-made cinematic character, bearing the contradictions of his world from the inside—a world where, much like ours, heterosexual male violence is performed through patently homoerotic means.

Although skin, bones, and fabric are all—to various degrees of visible and invisible discomfort—stitched 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, Cassandro’s 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 wouldn’t be fair to call the film hagiographic, but the director’s empathy, if not love, for her subject hinders her from examining Cassandro’s wounds with much depth. When faced with Cassandro’s misery, Losier’s 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, “I wish I could give you a kiss.” 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 people’s troublesome feelings in raw and unbridled fashion (think Jonas Mekas, Sadie Benning, and Su Friedrich). Which makes the juxtaposition of Losier’s visual language and her reluctance to examine Cassandro’s frailties feel particularly displeasing. Perhaps afraid that scrutiny would shatter Cassandro, Losier fails to realize that it’s 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

We’re committed to keeping our content free and accessible—meaning no paywalls or subscription fees—so if you like what we do, please consider becoming a SLANT patron:
Continue Reading

Features

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.

Published

on

Marc Maron
Photo: IFC Films

Marc Maron is presently enjoying one of the most unlikely and inspiring success stories in Hollywood. Once known as a bitter “comic’s comic” 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, “WTF,” and continuing with roles in the hit television series Maron, Easy, and GLOW. With each role, Maron has rapidly evolved from a “comic who acts” 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 film’s 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 “mind-fuckery” currently gripping modern media discourse.

Given that you’ve previously worked with Lynn Shelton on Maron and GLOW, did you two have a kind of collaborative shorthand going into Sword of Trust?

Well, I’m generally filled with anxiety and resistance. I don’t know if there’s a shorthand, but Lynn knows how to get the best out of me and works with me pretty well. I like directors who’re 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 I’m 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 there’s subtleties that can be coaxed out with minor tweaks. And I like working like that. I wouldn’t have the confidence to assume that my take is the “right” one necessarily.

There’s a stillness to you in Sword of Trust that I’m not sure we’ve seen before.

Yeah.

Your weight as a performer is really felt here, especially in that scene when Mel first see Lynn’s 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 who’s sort of surrendered to his lot in life. He also has a certain amount invested in his own. I don’t know if it’s heartache, but he’s definitely a broken dude who’s making the best of whatever time he has left. I don’t know if the other characters are really like that. They are always in forward motion.

You also inform Mel’s appraising of objects with all these lovely emotional textures. He’s not only talking about a sword.

The guitar too. As I act more, I try to take some of the space that you’re talking about. With acting I feel that I’ve been learning on the job in a way, and over time I’ve started to explore different possibilities with owning whatever my space is, whether it’s a movie or on stage. Certainly, over decades of doing stand-up, I’ve figured out my space on a stage, but being on a set and pacing yourself and taking the time to engage with what’s around you I think makes a lot of difference in how a performance comes off. It’s 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 I’ve started acting more, I’ve 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 I’ve talked to so many of them, I’ve started to realize, not in a disappointing way, that…what’s the word I want? That these are people doing a job, all in their own way. Once you get upset with people, you realize, “Well, that’s how they’re approaching this job,” and when you get into the ring or the scene, you’re in it.

That inside knowledge gives “WTF” 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 don’t think I ever set out to interview. I’ve framed what happens on my podcast as conversations, and they either go somewhere or they don’t. There’s a few points I may get hung up on, and there are places I go to fairly regularly in interviews, but I generally don’t see these conversations as question-and-answer situations. I don’t 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 don’t have to answer to anybody and I don’t know what I’m looking for half the time.

Yeah, and a challenge I’ve found with interviews is that one doesn’t always entirely know what is and isn’t 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 I’m not necessarily intuitive about that. I’m not really in the business of sandbagging anybody.

Right.

Usually you get somebody comfortable and things come out. If people are comfortable and engaged it doesn’t really matter what they’re talking about. Audiences will say, “Oh, wow, I didn’t know that.” These conversations don’t require information, but an emotional connection. I’m 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 isn’t civil and there’s a momentum to everything that’s based on mind-fuckery. I know for myself—as somebody who was relatively disinterested and uninformed about the functions of government and why politics and leadership make a difference—that 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. It’s not good. We need to consider what we really know and how we know it and what we’re telling other people.

Yeah.

People are so empowered by garbage information that’s being related in a relatively shallow way, which doesn’t take into consideration the influence and context of the rest of our lives. It’s sort of a disaster. I try to stay away from that stuff in terms of the conversations that I’m having. I’m 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. It’s called This Changes Everything. I tell you man, when someone’s that personally invested in something they believe in, and it’s righteous, and they lay it out for you and it makes sense, that’s what heartens my belief in this possibility for change.

To change gears a bit, is it cathartic for you, as someone who’s long been in recovery, to play characters who’re either reformed or have drug issues?

Yeah, sure. Most obviously there’s the last season of Maron, where my character has a relapse, which frankly didn’t happen in real life. When you really understand the nature of addiction, and you’ve seen it from the inside, and know the powerlessness and the struggle to live a life that’s not in the throes of it—I mean, it’s such a common struggle. And what’s amazing to me is how many people don’t find a way out of that or don’t seek help. Or are ashamed of it or don’t know how to get the help. I never set out to do this, but I’m thrilled and humbled by the effect my work has on people who’re isolated by this sickness. It’s really one of the more satisfying results of the podcast: how much mail I get from people who’re struggling and who want advice, or who feel less alone from what I’ve said. The great thing about recovery, and about playing these parts, is that it gives you a context that’s very specific—a way to legitimately help people that can change their entire lives.

We’re committed to keeping our content free and accessible—meaning no paywalls or subscription fees—so if you like what we do, please consider becoming a SLANT patron:
Continue Reading

Film

American Demons: Martin Bell’s Streetwise and Tiny: The Life of Erin Blackwell

Bell proves uncannily adept at capturing moments that seem to encapsulate a subject’s entire emotional temperature.

Published

on

Streetwise
Photo: Janus Films

Decades after its original release, Martin Bell’s Streetwise remains a boldly empathetic work of vérité portraiture. Throughout the 1984 documentary, Bell, photographer Mary Ellen Mark, and journalist Cheryl McCall follow a motley group of kids on the streets of Seattle as they panhandle, dig food out of dumpsters, and prostitute themselves to much older men. These scenes are accompanied by voiceovers from the young subjects, who describe their actions with a heartbreaking casualness that communicates two almost contradictory meanings: that they’re seasoned hustlers, having bypassed childhood for an everyday form of hell, and that they’re desperate to be seen precisely as said hustlers. To show emotion is to be vulnerable, and these subjects can’t afford to be seen as weak, yet the filmmakers capture more here than the street children may have suspected. Streetwise is charged by a deep, subterranean yearning to be loved, or even merely felt.

A plot hasn’t been imposed on Streetwise, as the audience is allowed to feel the numbing monotony of life on the fringes. People swing in and out of prison, crash in and out of secret hovels, most notably an abandoned hotel, and practice their grifts, while struggling with overlapping tides of addiction and depression. We also learn, startlingly, that not all these children are homeless. Streetwise’s most famous subject, Erin Blackwell, a.k.a. “Tiny,” lives with her mother, a waitress and alcoholic who rationalizes her daughter’s prostitution as a phase and who seems to be impressed with Erin’s ability to make a few hundred dollars on a good day. It’s little wonder that Erin captured and continued to command the filmmakers’ attention for decades after filming Streetwise ended. She has a squinty yet expressive glare that suggests both a deep reservoir of pain as well as intense fierceness.

Bell, Mark, and McCall take Erin and her cohorts, most vividly a skinny boy with potential tonsillitis named DeWayne Pomeroy, at face value. Streetwise is pointedly devoid of the sermonizing that might allow audiences to comfortably distance themselves from these people, regarding them simply as elements of a civics lesson. The film forces us to confront the obviousness of these children’s circumstances, as people walk by them just as we all walk by the homeless on a daily basis. This sense of culpability informs Streetwise with an uncomfortable texture that’s familiar to documentaries concerned with poor or mentally and emotionally challenged people, so you may wonder how the filmmakers shot what we’re seeing without stepping in and helping these people. Particularly disturbing is when Erin, 13 years old at the start of filming, is seen getting into a car with an old man who’s obviously a john.

If Streetwise was just a portrait of damnation and delusion, it would be an important document. But the film is also haunting for Bell, Mark, and McCall’s attention to the transcendence than can be felt even in such extreme circumstances. After Erin has gotten into trouble, DeWayne tells her of how he will rescue her, and his attempt at gallantry is poignant as well as devastating. When DeWayne visits his father in prison, the old man lectures the boy about keeping his smoking down and laying off the hard drugs, commanding DeWayne to roll up his shirt sleeves for a track-mark inspection. As brutally sad as this confrontation is, one feels this father’s love and wonders if DeWayne, clearly a sensitive and lonely boy, can feel it too. Retrospectively, it hardly matters: DeWayne hung himself not long after this visit.

Tiny: The Life of Erin Blackwell, a 2016 sequel to Streetwise that’s been in the works for thirtysomething years, offers a variety of unmooring contrasts from its predecessor. Erin is no longer the slim spitfire of Streetwise, but an overweight fortysomething mother of 10 who understandably appears to always be on the verge of exhaustion, and who takes methadone in an attempt to keep her drug addictions at bay while wrangling with her children’s own skirmishes with the law. Looking at Erin now, one sees the scars and weariness left by a hard life, part of which was documented by Streetwise, and one can implicitly feel Erin’s need for atonement. Though Erin’s gotten off the streets, living in a large home with her partner, Will, and several of her children, the streets have never left her.

Formally, Tiny is much different from Streetwise. The 1984 film abounds in seamy noises and textures, with roving camerawork that seems to be uncovering a new lurid discovery every few seconds; it feels palpably dangerous, and probably inspired films such as Gus Van Sant’s My Own Private Idaho and Larry’s Clark’s Kids. Set predominantly in Erin’s home, Tiny is slower and more polished, reflecting the (comparative) stability that Erin has achieved since appearing in Streetwise. Tiny also has a fancier structure than Streetwise, with a framing device in which Erin watches footage of herself over the years, including unused outtakes from the first film, with Mary Ellen Mark. An autumnal tone seeps into the new film, which offers a kaleidoscopic portrait of the unending legacies of crime and addiction.

As in Streetwise, Bell proves uncannily adept at capturing moments that seem to encapsulate a subject’s entire emotional temperature. There are frequent shots in Tiny of Erin sleeping with a little dog close to her face, which suggest rare moments of repose for a woman who’s used to running her chaotic family like a hostage negotiator. Erin frequently calls the cops on her own children, especially the headstrong teenager Rayshon, which Bell unforgettably rhymes with footage form Streetwise of a younger Erin visiting two of her children in foster care. One of the foster care children, Keanna, is now a mother herself, and resents Erin for abandoning her and for continuing to struggle with drug use.

Which is to say that Tiny is as charged with turmoil as Streetwise, and Bell proves equally capable here of rendering full relationships with only a few images or seconds of running time. As in Streetwise, our sympathies are rarely overtly directed, as Tiny is somehow on every character’s contradictory wavelength at once, illustrating how difficult understanding can be to achieve, most notably in the face of disaster. Though it runs a trim 87 minutes, Tiny offers an epic and piercing portrait of a large biracial family that’s plagued by essentially every demon known to American society. Erin escaped the streets only to fashion a home that’s rife with the very issues that drove her away from her own mother. Like most people, regardless of social stature, Erin is stuck in the temporal loop of her own inherent nature.

We’re committed to keeping our content free and accessible—meaning no paywalls or subscription fees—so if you like what we do, please consider becoming a SLANT patron:
Continue Reading

Film

Review: Radu Jude’s I Do Not Care If We Go Down in History as Barbarians

Jude’s film is a bitterly comic essay on nationalist mythologies and historical amnesia.

3.5

Published

on

I Do Not Care If We Go Down in History as Barbarians
Photo: Big World Pictures

Prime minister of Romania during most of World War II, Ion Antonescu is one of the era’s supreme villains: a virulent anti-Semite, Nazi collaborator, and authoritarian dictator whose troops murdered Jews with such velocity and enthusiasm that even Hitler was shocked by their actions. Upon ordering the forced expulsion—and, if necessary, genocide—of the Jews of Bessarabia and Bukovina, Antonescu proclaimed, “I do not care if we go down in history as Barbarians.” Radu Jude borrows that declaration, so haunting in its cruelty and disarming in its blitheness, for the title of his latest film, a bitterly comic essay on nationalist mythologies and historical amnesia that locates the seeds of Romania’s currently resurgent ethno-nationalism in the nation’s collective failure to truly confront its own past.

For while Antonescu was convicted of war crimes and sentenced to death by firing squad shortly after the war, there have been repeated attempts to rehabilitate his image in Romania since the fall of Nicolae Ceaușescu. Take Sergiu Nicolaescu’s 1994 film The Mirror, a hagiographic treatment of Antonescu’s rule that portrays the leader as a defiant protector of his people. Jude inserts a substantial clip of that film into I Do Not Care If We Go Down in History as Barbarians, having it play on a small TV set positioned in the exact center of the frame as we hear the off-screen voice of Jude’s protagonist, Mariana (Ioana Iacob), providing sardonic, outraged commentary on the film’s distorted presentation of Antonescu as a misunderstood hero. There’s an element of desperation in the scene: While Mariana offers an incontestable rebuttal, no one but her boyfriend (Alex Bogdan) is there to hear it. Meanwhile, The Mirror’s comforting nationalist lies are being beamed into homes all across Romania.

A headstrong theater director attempting to stage a public reenactment of the Odessa Massacre of 1941, in which Romanian troops slaughtered thousands of Ukrainian Jews, Mariana is obsessed with bringing the full weight of historical reality to her fellow countrymen. She obsessively reads histories of the period and drops quotations from philosophers and historical figures into everyday conversation. The film is consumed by lengthy, probing conversations—mostly shot by a statically mounted 16mm camera that pans back and forth to cover the actors’ movements—in which Mariana discusses art, philosophy, history, and politics with her various collaborators and friends.

Her most persistent interlocutor is Movilă (Alexandru Dabija), a local official tasked with overseeing the publicly funded production, who constantly pleads with Mariana to tone down her work’s unvarnished depiction of anti-Semitic violence. Movilă is a relativist, content in the knowledge that all memory is willfully selective, while Mariana truly believes in the power of stark historical truth. Though at times didactic and overloaded with quotations from the likes of Wittgenstein and Arendt, Jude’s dialogue nevertheless manages to feel remarkably naturalistic. That’s thanks in no small part to the powerfully unaffected performances of a cast that finds the subtle humor and neurotic character details embedded in Jude’s dense screenplay. Iacob captures Mariana’s unrelenting passion while also finding moments of vulnerability and self-doubt in the role, including moments of hesitation and anxiety borne of the fact that she’s a petite, cosmopolitan woman attempting to exert control over a large cast of rugged men, many of whom are diametrically opposed to the vision of her project.

Jude’s heavy themes are leavened by a self-effacing sense of modesty. Jude isn’t attempting to make grand pronouncements about the nature of memory and truth. Rather, I Do Not Care If We Go Down in History as Barbarians finds the director constantly interrogating his own perspective, questioning Mariana’s relationship to the wider public. That theme comes to a head in the film’s climactic presentation of the artist’s reenactment. Here, Jude switches from the warm dreaminess of 16mm to the harsh hyper-realism of digital video. The scene has the feel of a simple documentation of a live public event, but it isn’t clear that it’s actually any more “real” than the rest of the film. In particular, whether and to what extent the crowd of onlookers’ reactions are coached remains one of the film’s most intriguing enigmas.

Ultimately, Mariana finds herself perplexed and deflated by the public’s response to her work. One senses this reaction may be autobiographical for Jude, whose film Aferim! attempted to challenge Romanian audiences about the nation’s historical treatment of Roma people. As one of the few directors of the so-called Romanian New Wave whose work explores the country’s unsavory pre-Soviet past, Jude is swimming against the popular tide of revisionism and historical moral blindness. The anti-Semitic violence and hatred laid out in his latest is truly chilling, as is the contemporary tendency to diminish and obscure that dark past. But perhaps most disturbing of all is the idea put forth in the film’s conclusion: that one could present the truth to the public in all its brutality and horror, and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference.

Cast: Ioana Iacob, Alexandru Dabija, Alex Bogdan, Ilinca Manolache, Serban Pavlu, Ion Rizea, Claudia Ieremia Director: Radu Jude Screenwriter: Radu Jude Distributor: Big World Pictures Running Time: 140 min Rating: NR Year: 2018

We’re committed to keeping our content free and accessible—meaning no paywalls or subscription fees—so if you like what we do, please consider becoming a SLANT patron:
Continue Reading

Features

Interview: Lynn Shelton on Honing Her Process for Sword of Trust

The filmmaker discusses how she wants viewers to feel like they’re paratrooping into her characters’ lives.

Published

on

Lynn Shelton
Photo: IFC Films

Lynn Shelton has amassed a formidable body of work between her eight features and countless television episodes. Her latest outing, the comic adventure Sword of Trust, represents her most topical work to date. After pawn shop owner Mel (played by Marc Maron) purchases an old sword, he gets plunged into world of conspiracy culture as the relic attracts legions of online prowlers convinced that the weapon represents proof that the Confederacy won the Civil War. The logline might be Shelton’s wildest yet, but the elements that have made her work indelible for over a decade remain intact: realistic conversations, emotional authenticity, and a commitment to multi-dimensional characters.

I chatted with Shelton on Sword of Trust’s opening day, which saw the director, writer, producer, editor, and occasional actress in great spirits. Our conversation covered her pursuit of Maron for this specific project, how she developed her unique script-development process, and why she wants viewers to feel like they’re paratrooping into her characters’ lives.

Last year on Marc Maron’s podcast, you mentioned that you liked exploring relationships between people who wouldn’t normally interact. Sword of Trust continues in that tradition for you. What keeps bringing you back to these dynamics?

Have you heard of this theory of multiple intelligences, like different types of intelligences we have? I can’t remember the names that [Harvard psychologist Howard Gardner] came up with, I think there’s eight. I know I’m not the brightest bulb on all of these scales, but one way that I think I’m pretty high is in emotional intelligence. I like to think I am, anyway. I’ve always been that close observer of human behavior. I also really love humans. I feel like the thing that makes humans human are their flaws. So, on screen, I don’t like to see people who are too smoothed out, all good or all bad. I’m interested in characters who are essentially good people, but they may be total fuck-ups and well-meaning who may sabotage themselves. Individual fucking up often happens in relation to other people. We may have a pre-determined need to connect to other people, but we’re constantly sabotaging ourselves.

Sometimes, like I said on the podcast, I’m much more interested in unlikely combinations of people because it’s not a prewritten script we’re handed. It’s not like, “This is who would be appropriate for you as a friend. This is the way you should act. This is the box we’ve already determined for you.” Any kind of out-of-the-box way of living one’s life or being surprised by a connection you feel to a human being, all those little happy accidents in life are the things I like to explore. To inspire people, not to just go through life in this sort of “this is what someone else had in mind for me, and I should follow that plan”—that feels very depressing to me. It’s more interesting to open your heart and your life up to other experiences.

To explore relationships in that way makes the everyday more interesting and exciting.

Yeah, exactly. It gives you a reason to stick around.

Having been a guest of Marc’s on his podcast twice, do you see any of his interviewer “persona” having an impact on the person you film on screen? Does training himself to listen and be present have any effect on making him a better screen partner?

Absolutely! The first time I directed Marc was on his TV show Maron, and I was so fascinated by his process. He’s raw and a really natural actor. He steps in front of the camera, and he’s looking at his scene partner and really knows how to listen and engage. A lot of that comes from sitting across from people and staring into their eyes. That’s why he’s such a good interviewer and has the top interview podcast, because he has a genuine conversation with people. And that’s all acting really is too. He also has this weird ability to let the camera and crew and other extraneous details just fade away for him, and a lot of people find all that really distracting and difficult to shut out. He doesn’t know where the camera is half the time. He said to me, “The next thing I want to do as an actor is figure out when the camera is on me.” I said, “What?! That camera’s right there!” He’s like, “I don’t see it. I’m not aware of it. I’m just in this scene with the person.” I’m like, “That is a gift, my friend. That is incredible that you’re able to not see the lights and craziness, just be in the scene.” He’s really able to do it. I think that definitely comes from that same skill set he’s drawing on.

Where does the genesis of your films occur? They usually have some kind of strong conceptual selling point or hook, but they’re often like a Trojan horse to get to deep conversations between the characters about something else.

It is, and the genesis of the vast majority of my films is an actor as a muse that I want to work with. Humpday was Mark Duplass, Outside In was his brother, Jay Duplass, this movie was Marc Maron, who I’ve been really wanting to make a movie with for three and a half years. Then there’s other things, like a territory I want to explore or an element I want to return to, like improvisation, which I haven’t done since Your Sister’s Sister. I’ve done several movies in between that have been scripted, but I wanted to allow myself a new genre. I knew I wanted to laugh because the last movie was a drama, and I was ready to laugh—and let myself really laugh by going into the outlandish and ridiculous, plot-wise. Go into some comedy-caper territory, which I’ve never let myself do before. I’ve been totally real in every moment, and this time I was like, “What if I have real characters who go to a crazy place?” I wanted to make a culturally relevant movie that didn’t make you want to slit your wrists. It referred to what was going on and some of the problematic elements of what we’re dealing with in society. We’re having this peak moment in conspiracy theories. They’ve always been around, but this is definitely where they’ve achieved a peak moment that I find very disturbing. So, it’s usually a territory I want to explore and an actor I want to work with.

How do you research or prepare to authentically treat conspiracy culture?

Well, there’s this thing called a computer and a thing called the internet, and boy, is it all in there! [laughs] We went down a rabbit hole with Mike O’Brien, my co-writer. It’s so fascinating because there’s little in-fighting. They really bonded over Pizzagate and the Twin Towers being an inside job, but then when it comes to hollow earth versus the earth is on fire, they’re at odds and frenemies for life. It’s insane, the shit you find.

How do you approach shooting improvisational dialogue? There’s a very naturalistic feel to it, but there are hardly any vocal fillers like “um” or “you know.”

Well, you get the right cast, so that really helps. I’ll tell you, you can do a lot in the editing room. You’ll see it on screen, there are these runs of incredible monologues. But if I’m cutting away to another actor for a reaction shot, it’s often because I’m slicing out an “um” or an “ah” or a little bauble. The edit room is the most redemptive place in the universe. It’s incredible what you can do and how you can carve out the right story. Especially with improvisation, it really is where the actual script is written. Our first cut—it didn’t feel fat, it was funny throughout—was two and a half hours long. I was like, “How am I going to cut out five to seven minutes, much less an hour?” And for me, a comedy has to be 90 minutes, so I knew I needed an hour out of there. It was like, “This is hysterical, this is gold, but it’s not serving the story. Ultimately, what is the story? It could be this, or it could include this, but let’s just hone it down to Mel’s emotional arc and make sure we can track it through the craziness.” We want to care about these people just enough and balance it. There was so much work in the edit room.

Sword of Trust is definitely a comedy, but the scene I found most striking was Mel explaining his history to your character, Deidre, and in such a matter-of-fact, serious fashion, in the back of the truck. Did you always intend to set off this important part of the story with such a stark tonal contrast?

No, it wasn’t. When Mike O’Brien really insisted that I be in the movie, I finally relented and thought I was going to be a random customer who came in for five seconds. But then, I realized she could be a device that helps us track Mel’s arc. I was really panicking for a long time because I couldn’t figure out how to make her funny. I can be comedic, but she wasn’t comedic. She was so desperate and tragic. Then I finally realized that I wasn’t going to worry about it. I wasn’t going to try to turn her into some kind of laughing-stock. I was just going to be what she feels like she needs to be. That was an indication that this movie is going to have that real element of heaviness to it, but it happened really organically. I wanted you to care about these people, but I didn’t realize there was going to be that much depth to one of them, so much poignant heart and humanity. That was a nice surprise.

You’ve described your writing process as being “upside-down,” where the script develops alongside the characters. How did you develop this writing style?

I never went to traditional film school. I had this long, circuitous route to get to what I’m doing. I started as a theater actor, then I went to photography and started doing experimental work, but everything as a solo artist. The most important work of the film, making the process of the acting, is obstructed at every turn by the process of making it. You’re out of order. In theater, you at least get to play a story from beginning to end and feel it out. You’re at scene 35 on the first day and like, “What’s happened before this? Where am I emotionally?” And then you’ve got to do it 40 times with the camera in different positions and act like nobody else is there. The whole thing is so hard, unless you’re Meryl Streep! But if you’re not working with Meryl Streep, what do you do as a director? I need real people on screen.

My second feature, My Effortless Brilliance, was a total experiment. I came up with these characters in my head and tried to cast them from a pretty small pool of actors. They were nothing like the characters. I realized, “What if you did it the other way? What if you had a person you wanted to work with…” That was where I started with that idea, and all I cared about was to make it feel like a documentary. I wanted you to turn the TV on and be like, “What am I watching? Am I in these people’s lives?” And people have said they’ve had that experience where they’ll turn it on in the middle of Showtime and have no idea what they’re watching but that it feels like a documentary. Which is like, “Yes! That’s what I meant.”

And then I honed it with Humpday. Once I knew I could work in that way, I upped the stakes. I’ll bring in a few lights. I had said, “No lights! Me and another camera operator with tiny cameras, a boom op, that’s it.” I eliminated the crew. But that was where I came up with that initial impulse, to make it feel really real. If the character fits the actor like a glove because it’s half them or three-quarters them and they’ve developed it with me…I want real humans.

I actually had that experience of picking up one of your movies and not missing a beat. I was late to my showtime of Your Sister’s Sister in the theater, but I didn’t feel like I was lost. Then a few years later I watched it at home from the beginning, which helped it make a little more sense. But I felt I had easily intuited what I had missed.

It’s funny because I want my movies to feel like you’re paratrooping into somebody’s life. We’re taking a little journey down the river of their life for a while, and then we leave again. I don’t like to tie things up too neatly at the end because I want you to get the sense that they’re continuing to live their lives, and who knows what’s going to happen in the future. But you just sort of paratrooped in a little bit later! [laughs]

On that note, there’s a line toward the end of the film where Jillian Bell’s character, Cynthia, takes a deep breath and says, “What a strange experience.” Is that line improvised or scripted? In a lot of ways, the line feels like it sums up where characters often net out at the end of your films.

That was all improvised! It’s all ordinary people going into crazy land, but yeah, ordinary people having weird dramas in their everyday lives. I mean, it can happen. I’ve heard stories of shit happening to random people that feel like…you couldn’t write that shit!

We’re committed to keeping our content free and accessible—meaning no paywalls or subscription fees—so if you like what we do, please consider becoming a SLANT patron:
Continue Reading

Film

Review: Into the Ashes Brings Nothing New to the Country Noir Genre

Aaron Harvey is prone to pulling back from any moment that might give greater depth to his revenge tale.

2

Published

on

Into the Ashes
Photo: RLJE Films

Aaron Harvey’s Into the Ashes is the latest in an increasing string of so-called country noirs set in the dilapidated backwoods of rural America, places ravaged by the opioid crisis and populated by jobless people long ago abandoned by politicians. It has little to distinguish itself, narratively or thematically, from similarly dour films, and it lets generic images of its rundown Alabama locale (rusted trucks, cramped houses, landlines in a wireless world) stand in as symbols of national decline without truly seeping into the complex social rot of the place. Its plot, of a reformed criminal forced to contend with his old gang leader over some stolen loot, is similarly superficial, hitting the typical beats of its genre.

Where Into the Ashes gets a boost is in its excellent cast of grizzled character actors, all of whom vibrantly express varying degrees of weariness and rage. Luke Grimes plays the erstwhile ne’er-do-well and ex-con Nick Brenner with the nervousness of a man who’s just learning to let go of his past and give in to hope. The man’s gruff, taciturn nature is leavened by his tender relationship with his wife, Tara (Marguerite Moreau), and he projects his faith in normalcy onto her. Nick relies so heavily on Tara for his emotional wellbeing that he anxiously calls home while on an overnight hunting trip just so he can hear her voice.

Equally human beneath a hard exterior is Nick’s father-in-law, Frank (Robert Taylor), the local sheriff whose intimidating Tom Waits-esque voice and stiff demeanor belie his fumbling, masculine attempts to welcome Nick into his family. Strongest of all, though, is Frank Grillo as Sloan, Nick’s recently paroled and vengeful boss. Grillo is at home playing big-fish-in-small-pond villains, and the actor makes the most of Sloan’s thin characterization, exuding psychopathic menace when Sloan confronts Nick in the latter’s home, drawing out every oblique threat as he circles the subject of the money that Nick stole from the crew’s last job before Sloan was sent to prison. Grillo expertly inflects even the silliest moments of sub-Tarantino dialogue with a disarming venom, such as an extended riff on pie and ice cream.

But if the actors are primed to explore the contours around a basic premise, Henry constantly pulls back from any moment that might give greater depth to his revenge tale. Women exist to be supportive and to become victims, while character-driven conversations between Nick and Frank devolve into asinine ethics debates over justifiable violence. Worst of all, there’s just no sense that the film is saying or revealing much of anything. There’s one moment where Into the Ashes achieves a touch of bleak grace akin to the work of Cormac McCarthy by skipping over the events leading to a shootout and focusing only on its grisly aftermath: bodies strewn about in puddles of blood that look like reflective pools of black ice in the pale moonlight. Then, not five minutes later, we get a flashback showing the lead-up to that carnage. As with so much else in the film, a haunting moment of elision is negated by literal representation.

Cast: Luke Grimes, Frank Grillo, Marguerite Moreau, James Badge Dale, Robert Taylor, Brady Smith, Jeff Pope, Andrea Frankle Director: Aaron Harvey Screenwriter: Aaron Harvey Distributor: RLJE Films Running Time: 97 min Rating: NR Year: 2019

We’re committed to keeping our content free and accessible—meaning no paywalls or subscription fees—so if you like what we do, please consider becoming a SLANT patron:
Continue Reading

Film

Review: Stéphane Brizé’s At War Is Politically Charged but Artistically Inert

The film is content to bluntly affirm that corporate attempts at compassion are always secondary to providing profit to shareholders.

2

Published

on

At War
Photo: Cinema Libre Studio

Seven months after the first flare-up of France’s Gilets Jaunes, the nascent populist movement shows no signs of ceasing. Combined with the country’s ongoing Telecom scandal, in which several executives have been charged with “moral harassment” after 35 workers were allegedly hounded into committing suicide, it’s evident that what’s simmering there is an extension of the same unease escalating around much of Europe, and the world at large. It’s a state of affairs that makes At War seem especially of the moment, and which leaves its eventual failure to offer any special insight so disappointing. Provided with a prime opportunity to animate the zeitgeist, Stéphane Brizé’s labor-focused drama instead uses this timeliness to prod along the most obvious of points, its nuts-and-bolts, process-oriented approach never amounting to more than a surface look at the issues it purports to confront.

The film in some ways functions as an unofficial prelude to Brizé’s prior The Measure of a Man, in which an unemployed machinist played by Vincent Lindon finds a new career as a hyper-market security guard, where he’s eventually forced to choose between serving as a traitorous management lackey and losing his job. Here, Lindon’s Laurent Amédéo is still in possession of his original occupation, though things are hanging by a thread, as a last-ditch organizing effort attempts to halt the closure of a manufacturing plant in Agen. Surrounded by a cast of convincing non-professionals, Laurent leads the picket line, refusing to waver from the straight and narrow, an intense figure of principle whose scruples are never in doubt.

At War is largely notable for its steadfast devotion to a kind of mechanistic aesthetic, which unfortunately lines up with its cheerless didacticism, the two qualities cohering in a scene-by-scene summation of a strike action that repeatedly hammers home the same general points. The scenes themselves evince heft, fluidity, and an impressive sense of improvisation, but the staging is static and the eventual outcome is always clear. The game is given away by Lindon’s stoic face and the gradual unraveling of the plot, which envisions internal disintegration—leveraged by outside pressure—as the insidious method by which solidarity is smashed. Despite some genuine drama in this dissolution, it’s always clear who’s right and who’s wrong, which material interests each is representing, and who’s lying and who’s telling the truth.

This didn’t have to be the case, as proven by David France’s procedure-focused documentary How to Survive a Plague, which balanced a similarly diagrammatic narrative with extensive character detail, expanding the stakes while affixing a deeper subtext about the ways the victory of a marginalized group eventually diminishes its radical standing. Intent on emphasizing the connections between callous corporate greed and populist unrest, Brizé’s film is bluntly focused on the bottom line. There’s a certain dramatic function to this technique, as it examines the individual human actions that allow such interests to put their will into practice, but it doesn’t justify the flat, exhortative style of address.

As another example of how well this kind of economic criticism can be carried off, there are the dazzling docu-essays of German filmmaker Harun Farocki, who routinely found surprising intricacies in the cold façade of modern capitalism, while offering empathetic alignment with workers as a matter of course. At War, on the other hand, merely summarizes what its audience already knows, affirming that corporate attempts at compassion are always secondary to providing profit to shareholders, and that genuine humanity and integrity are liabilities when confronting such an unfeeling monolith. Like Ken Loach’s recent Palme d’Or winner I, Daniel Blake, it’s a film whose political principles are hard to disagree with, yet which leans so heavily on this moral certitude as to render itself entirely inert.

Cast: Vincent Lindon, Melanie Rover, Jacques Borderie, David Rey, Olivier Lemaire Director: Stéphane Brizé Screenwriter: Stéphane Brizé, Olivier Gorce Distributor: Cinema Libre Studio Running Time: 115 min Rating: NR Year: 2019

We’re committed to keeping our content free and accessible—meaning no paywalls or subscription fees—so if you like what we do, please consider becoming a SLANT patron:
Continue Reading

Film

Review: Bottom of the 9th Strikes Out with Too Much Plot Incident

Raymond De Felitta’s film offers a sampler course of formulas, which creates a strangely unfulfilling tension.

1.5

Published

on

Bottom of the 9th
Photo: Saban Films

Raymond De Felitta’s Bottom of the 9th offers a sampler course of formulas, which creates a strangely unfulfilling tension. Just when you expect the film to go in a certain direction, it goes in another, only for it to again switch routes, though there’s never a sense of expectations being deliberately challenged or tweaked. Rather, the filmmakers merely seem to be indulging a variety of passing fancies, which is a shame because the actors here are game and occasionally imbue the shopworn scenes with liveliness.

Sonny Stano (Joe Manganiello) is the perfect hero for either a noir or a redemptive sports film, a man approaching middle age who just served a 19-year sentence for manslaughter. Famous in his Bronx neighborhood for being drafted by the Yankees, only to flush his life down the toilet, Sonny is attempting to patch his life together while doing a perpetual apology tour on behalf of friends and strangers alike. He’s initially hired by an old friend, Joey (James Madio), to work in a fish market that seems to be a front for something. Joey has a cagey energy, and this narrative isn’t without intrigue, but De Felitta and screenwriter Robert Bruzio unceremoniously lose sight of it in succumbing to a number of clichés.

Of course, Sonny is revealed to have a woman who got away, Angela (Sofia Vergara), who one day runs into her old beau at a market. They clearly have chemistry, as do the actors playing them, but their dialogue is composed of nothing but redemptive platitudes. In these scenes, Manganiello and Vergara are stuck in a worst-of-all-worlds situation. Their characters are relentlessly mousey, which is appropriate to the awkward context of Sonny and Angela’s reunion, but which also robs these sexy actors of the opportunity to enjoy playing off one another. Meanwhile, said mousiness isn’t poignant either, as the characters haven’t been imagined beyond the respective stereotypes of the fallen man and jilted woman.

Bottom of the 9th then flirts with a narrative similar to that of Bull Durham and Major League, in which Sonny is hired by a local minor league ball team to rein in the fiery, egotistical talents of a rookie named Manny (Xavier Scott Evans). Evans is ferociously charismatic, suggesting a young Wesley Snipes and giving Manganiello a kinetic vibe to play off of, and so the film finally begins to come to life, with great character actors like Michael Rispoli and Burt Young riffing on the sidelines. However, this conceit is also left hanging, as the film shifts into a story of the unlikely comeback, with Sonny’s own talents taking center ring.

De Felitta might’ve gotten by with these contrivances if he were a natural showman, but the filmmaker displays little interest in the Bronx setting in which his characters live, or in rendering their experiences in a fashion that refutes screenwriterly index-card portraiture. For instance, a prison flashback in which Sonny gets into a fight during a ball game is reduced to trite and melodramatic close-ups, while much of the remainder of the film is composed of medium shots designed to accentuate only the largely uninteresting dialogue. There’s truly nothing in Bottom of the 9th but plot incident, and the leisurely, impersonal one-thing-after-another-ness of the film’s construction is stifling.

Cast: Joe Manganiello, Sofía Vergara, Denis O'Hare, Burt Young, James Madio, Yancey Arias, Michael Rispoli, Vincent Pastore, Dominik García-Lorido, Michael Maize, Kevin William Paul Director: Raymond De Felitta Screenwriter: Robert Bruzio Distributor: Saban Films Running Time: 111 min Rating: R Year: 2019

We’re committed to keeping our content free and accessible—meaning no paywalls or subscription fees—so if you like what we do, please consider becoming a SLANT patron:
Continue Reading
Advertisement

Giveaways

Advertisement

Newsletter

Advertisement

Preview

Trending