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Langerado Music Festival (Sunrise, FL – March 9, 2007)

The general mellow atmosphere is conducive to Frisbee and cruising the vendor tents for hacky sacks and homemade Phish T-shirts, but Sunday evening proved that the fest has some cajones underneath all that tie-dye.

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Langerado Music Festival (Sunrise, FL - March 9, 2007)

Other than the types of reunion acts that are willing to play mid-sized Philharmonics and minor-league hockey stadiums (Guns N’ Roses was a big deal), the live acts that play South Florida are few and far between. So perhaps I was overexcited for the annual Langerado festival which, to put it charitably, is the poor-man’s Bonnaroo. Taking place in the enormous Markham Park (700 acres, including a shooting range and model airplane field), the fest had three stages: two large open-aired (Sunset and Everglades) and one covered area setting a smaller, club-like atmosphere (the Swamp Tent). Placed a couple hundred yards from one another, generally one or two bands would play at a time; you could always hear something, but wandering and sampling was impossible, and if neither Matisyahu or O.A.R. are your cup of tea, you might be shit out of luck for an hour.

Langerado is a two-day festival stretched out over three days, and though the lineup was stacked in the hippies’ smelly favor, there were some leftfield choices (the Hold Steady, Blackalicious, Girl Talk) alongside the jam-fest regulars (Trey Anastasio, Widespread-fucking-Panic). The folks behind the scenes at Langerado clearly have their eyes on the nationally recognized prize: every piece of promotional material hyped Sunrise, Florida’s close proximity to Fort Lauderdale’s international airport, and last year’s local band tent was completely nixed for three stages of signed, national groups.

The War on Drugs declared a cease-fire within the fest’s gates, at least as far as pot was concerned, so Friday’s acts were of the stoner variety. Early spots like the sanitized, white-boy reggae of Dubconscious and Lotus, a full-band that mimics DJ-based house and trance music, were well-received by the increasingly inebriated crowd. The first big surprise was Sharon Jones & The Dap Kings, a traditional soul group from James Brown’s—and my—hometown of Augusta, Georgia. The Kings sound like a better-than-the-norm wedding band on their own, but with Jones as frontwoman (she makes a grand entrance after two songs or so), they were the next best thing to the JBs. A big-boned black woman in a sparkly dress with a crystal-shattering shriek, Jones has no qualms about declaring herself “the female James Brown” or the next Tina Turner. Their set was fun and fabulous, and sort of hilarious.

The hipster set arrived around suppertime, kicked off at five o’clock by The Hold Steady. The band works because, at heart, they’re like a bunch of little kids dressing up and playing rock star—except they are exceptionally good at playing rock star. Frontman Craig Finn pantomimes his lyrics and stumbles into his microphone while other band members swing Les Pauls around their necks and boast some truly heroic sideburns. Starting somewhat predictably with Boys And Girls In America’s opener “Stuck Between Stations” and closing even more predictably with the record’s final song, “Southtown Girls,” the band humored a pretty bratty crowd whose bizarre heckles suggested that rock n’ roll really is the asshole’s medium.

Since breaking up Pavement, Stephen Malkmus and his backing band The Jicks have been getting more and more improv-oriented. Problem is, Malkmus’s tube-amp crunch and stumbling arpeggios didn’t appeal to the fans of flashier riffers like Bela Fleck or Anastasio, and indie-rockers would probably rather hear “Summer Babe.” Quirky, but undeniably indulgent, the jamming would render The Jicks excruciating if it weren’t for Sleater-Kinney’s Janet Weiss on drums. Weiss’s inventive and commanding fills kept up the band’s pace and my interest; she could make any band sound awesome.

Except for Bela Fleck. I caught about five minutes of his set while I was waiting in line for a Port-a-John. Why do people like this guy? It’s total elevator music. I blew off Anastasio and much of Saturday’s sets because I’ve been fighting a cold and I wanted to check out the beach-clearly, I’m not apart of Langerado’s demographic. But what I did see on Saturday was dope. Blackalicious, Langerado’s only hip-hop act if you don’t count beat-boxers Matisyahu and Kid Beyond (I don’t), were impressive. MC Gift Of Gab’s delivery increases in speed during bursts of breathless sequences, calling attention to how difficult rapping can be, a trick that brought big cheers from a crowd so devoted to technical prowess. The group’s backing vocalists and wah-wahed keyboards and turntables established an old-school ‘70s funk vibe; no doubt groovy, but an inadvertent reminder that edgier hip-hop acts (i.e. anyone that might say “nigga”) are unlikely to make it to Langerado. It’s a diverse lineup, but a safe one.

My Morning Jacket, set on the Everglade’s stage, blew me away. In the live setting, the band’s dreamy hybrid of Galaxie 500 and Skynyrd gets a boost of AC/DC as well; it’s one band that probably merits a double-disc live album. With their very long hair, smoke machines, Flying V’s, and overworked groupies, the band enjoys acting like they’re the biggest band in the world, even if they’re not even the biggest band at this festival.

On Sunday, the place to be was the Swamp Tent, particularly to catch the extraordinary redemption of Cat Power. Chan Marshall, she of the legendarily bad concerts, has killed the onstage breakdowns, stops and starts, and ineptness, and emerged as what her nom-de-plume has always suggested: she’s a total sex kitten. Gorgeous in an Edie Sedgwick or Nico kind of way, Marshall struts like Jagger and moans with a raspy coo that puts Marilyn Monroe’s “Happy Birthday” to shame. Her backing group, the Dirty Delta Blues Band, lends a trippy Brit-blues vibe a la Them or the Yardbirds, which amps up her slower originals (“Where Is My Love”) and adds some flavor to her many covers. The only low point was a fish-in-a-barrel take on Gnarls Barkley’s “Crazy.”

The last three hours in the Swamp Tent called attention to all that Langerado could be: Explosions in the Sky were followed by Girl Talk followed by the New Pornographers, with nary a beer break between each set. The general mellow atmosphere is conducive to Frisbee and cruising the vendor tents for hacky sacks and homemade Phish T-shirts, but Sunday evening proved that the fest has some cajones underneath all that tie-dye.

Explosions in the Sky sounded great, meaning they sounded just like their records. They’re a good rock band, but just ’cause they’re instrumental doesn’t mean they’re all that complex: their songs have two parts—the loud part and the soft part. Again, I’m a part of a very grouchy minority here, but they put on a stultifyingly boring live show. Bobbing their heads back and forth and closing their eyes to address the firmament—or the ceiling of the Swamp Tent—they look self-impressed and lame while you wait for each song to build toward its predictable, but always exhilarating, loud part. The crowd loved the jet engine effect, though I wonder what they’d make of a Wolf Eyes show.

Girl Talk, a.k.a. Greg Gillis, shouted “I’m gonna do this laptop shit for 40 minutes,” and did just that, blasting his elaborate, clever mashups to a crowd all too eager to dance like they were in a Girls Gone Wild video after a weekend of swaying around barefooted. Gillis’s music is the most explicit indication that there is no longer a line between “indie” and “commercial” music; clips of Neutral Milk Hotel, INXS, Fleetwood Mac, and Clipse all received equally excited cheers. But what are we cheering for, exactly? Gillis and his impressive collage skills? The original artists? Or ourselves for recognizing these examples of cultural commerce that we’ve already consumed and re-consumed?

Pondering such matters filled the 10 minutes or so before The New Pornographers tore up the stage, opening with “Sing Me Spanish Techno.” Like a number of bands at Langerado, the New Pornos mined their cute factor: AC Newman’s adorable niece Kathryn Calder stands in for Neko Case, and the group’s in-between-song banter was largely giggling about the phallic qualities of the audience’s glow sticks. But with two pretty good and one stellar album under its belt, the band’s the set was filler-free and full of neat rock tricks—drummer Kurt Dahle tossing sticks between fills, bassist John Collins guzzling John Jameson from the bottle.

After closing with an explosive version of “Use It,” I turned around and saw the Swamp Tent was barely one third full. Did the best set of the festival really draw the smallest crowd? A disappointment for the band perhaps, but I confess, a snobby delight for myself. There may not be all that much in common between the indie rock and jam-band scenes after all, because while Widespread Panic glazed through two-and-a-half hours of glorified easy-listening over at the Everglades Stage, all that I prize about live rock n’ roll—energy, theatrics, precision, sex-appeal—was on display in the New Pornos furious hour-long set. Those who want a 10-minute plus rendition of anything need not apply.

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Interview: Mary Kay Place on the Emotional Journey of Kent Jones’s Diane

The actress speaks at length about the little pieces of herself that she sees in her character.

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Mary Kay Place
Photo: IFC Films

Diane, the eponymous character of film critic, programmer, and documentarian
Kent Jones’s narrative directorial debut, provides Mary Kay Place with a rare leading role that the character actress inhabits with customary nuance. Diane is a woman grappling with countless burdens, none bigger than her struggle to bridge the gap between herself and her son, Brian (Jake Lacy), who’s battling addiction. Place is in every scene of the film, and she’s mesmerizing in each one, for showing how Diane’s routines, from volunteering at a soup kitchen to caring for a dying cousin, takes some kind of toll on her mind.

Place has delivered many memorable performances throughout her long career, most notably in The Big Chill and Manny & Lo. She became reliable for playing folksy, no-nonsense women—often mothers—who’re predisposed to putting others first and leading from the heart. Maybe that’s why Diane felt like a perfect fit for the actress. Throughout Jones’s film, Diane drops by houses and hospital rooms, looking to stay “only but for a minute.” But her business masks a deeper pain and loneliness, and the film allows Kay to bring to the surface certain rhythms that she hasn’t often been allowed to channel in her previous work.

In a recent conversation with Place about Diane, the actress spoke to me at length about the little pieces of herself that she sees in her character, how she expresses her own anger, and why she considers herself a “kitchen dancer.”

Diane is selfless, lonely, ashamed, tough. Do you see yourself in her?

Yes, because she lives in a small community, and my parents came from small towns in Texas, and because I went to these towns my whole life to visit my grandparents with my family. The casserole exchange, and the experiences that take place in small communities—they resonated with me. Many of us in our families have addiction issues; we can all relate to that aspect of Diane. And many of us have said things we regret or feel ashamed about and hold on to, though maybe not for as long as Diane does. As members of her family pass away, that family loss is an initiation into a new dimension of your life. I could relate to that as well. She takes a turn into a deeper exploration of her own needs and wants because she has time to reflect.

Diane’s well-meaning is an attempt to compensate for her failures. Why do you think Diane is the way she is, so hard on herself?

Because some people just are. She’s a sensitive person. She busies herself with lists to distract her from thinking about the things she carries around as a burden. But as the film moves on, she has more time for reflection and goes through a transformation in small, tiny ways.

Much of your performance as Diane is internal. Can you describe your process in playing those moments?

It flowed naturally because of the script. There was an inner dialogue going on and that was reflected on my face. I was aware of subtext. Even though it wasn’t written, my imagination found the rhythm and flow that occurred. Once you get into shooting, being in every scene helped that development. There was an inner and outer dialogue. We go through this whole time period and as she has more time alone and once her son gets sober—that’s a huge weight off her shoulders—she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

Diane’s relationship with her son is interesting. He lies to her, he bullies her, and at times she stands up to him. She’s no-nonsense in dealing with him. I’m curious to know your personal thoughts about this dynamic of their relationship?

She’s definitely codependent and enabling her son by doing his laundry. She doesn’t know how to let go. Maybe she’s never been to an Al-Anon meeting—or has and rejected it. So, they have this dynamic, and they feed off each other. They’re hooked in. She’s not able to break free of it.

How do you personally cope with the ups and downs of life?

Well, I do centering prayer, and mindful meditation, exercise. I think the prayer and meditation have always been important coping mechanisms.

There’s a scene in a bar where Diane goes drinking, puts on the jukebox and dances. It made me remember your dancing in the kitchen to “Handyman” in Smooth Talk.

I’m a big kitchen dancer—with other people or by myself. I have all kinds of playlists and I love to dance. I really wanted to do that bar scene. I picked the song—Leon Russell’s “Out in the Woods”—because it’s fun to dance to, and the lyrics were appropriate for Diane. Kent was game for that. It showed another side of Diane that we hadn’t seen. It was from when she was at a simpler time in her life and didn’t have shameful thoughts and was just out having fun.

We see what makes Diane come undone. So I guess I’m also curious to know what makes you lose your temper or patience?

I come from a family that doesn’t hold things in. We let the freak flag fly and then it’s totally over and done with. Explosions and then we’re through! I lose patience with people being oblivious to the feeling of others, and I have no tolerance for meanness. None. I might lash out, depend on the circumstances—and I can if called upon—but I generally don’t.

Diane appears to be a creature of habit, living a life that consists of routine. Are you in that mold, or more peripatetic or free-spirited?

I’m “both/and” instead of “either/or.” I get real orderly and then I get real spontaneous and have to start all over again. Diane’s driving connects the scenes and shows that monotony that she experiences. Oh my God, we’re back in that car again driving to someone’s house! It’s not a walking community. And it’s a different rhythm driving on country roads than in L.A.

We also see how patient Diane can be. Where do you think she gets that quality, and do you share it?

Sometimes she’s not patient. I strive to be more patient. I can be patient and sometimes I can be very impatient. Once again, it’s a “both/and” kind of thing.

Your career has been as an in-demand character actress. This is a rare leading role for you. Watching Diane, I kept thinking: “It’s long overdue that you were the star!”

Thank you for saying it’s long overdue. I enjoy every minute of it, but I love ensemble work. It’s interesting to find a rhythm and exchange words and movement with other people. It’s fun. It’s been interesting to have this leading part, but I love the other work as well.

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Interview: Jia Zhang-ke on Ash Is Purest White and the Evolution of China

Jia discusses what he likes about digital video and how Zhao Tao helped bring her role to life.

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Jia Zhang-ke
Photo: Cohen Media Group

Unshowy yet unshakably self-assured, sincere but with glimpses of a sly sense of humor, and unhesitatingly frank even about touchy topics like the Chinese government’s censorship of his work, Jia Zhang-ke comes off in person just as a fan of his films might expect. Ever since his 1997 feature debut, The Pickpocket, and 2000’s Platform, in which young people struggle to adapt to China’s increasing Westernization, Jia has been creating a kind of unofficial history of his homeland, quietly defying his government’s determination to erase its tracks as it barrels along by doing things like rewiring the economy, rewriting the social contract, and depopulating whole cities and erecting new ones in a matter of months.

Jia’s films operate in metaphorical deep focus, surfacing the ways that these sweeping societal changes affect individual lives and relationships by zeroing in on sensitively detailed portrayals of two lovers, or of a group or pair of friends, while just as clearly portraying the socioeconomic backdrops to their stories. And often at the center of his films is Zhao Tao, his wife and longtime muse. In Jia’s latest, Ash Is Purest White, Zhao reprises the role she played in 2002’s Unknown Pleasures: Qiao Qiao, a strong-willed woman from Jia’s hometown of Fenyang, this time over a span of 17 years that starts when she’s the young lover of a gangster and ends with her in charge of the gambling den he once ran.

In a conversation before Ash Is Purest White’s debut at the New York Film Festival, Jia explained what he likes about digital video, how Zhao Tao helped bring her role to life, and how he deals with his government’s suppression of his work.

The music in your films is always an important part of the story. Can you talk about how you picked the songs for this one, starting with “Y.M.C.A.”?

Since I wanted to set the story starting in 2001, I wanted to find a piece of music that can trigger that particular era very authentically. And back in the day, in 2001, the younger generation, they didn’t have a lot of sources of entertainment. They might have had a disco club and karaoke, and that was about it. Two songs very popular at that time were “Y.M.C.A.” and “Go West” [the Pet Shop Boys song that was a motif in Jia’s Mountains May Depart].

The reason that we liked “Y.M.C.A.” was not because we understood the lyrics or understood who sang them or who was involved in the production. We had no idea what they were singing about. But we did enjoy the rhythm, the melody, and the beat, which is matching the heartbeat of the young people. It really got you going and brought up the energy of the room.

Another song that is particularly important in the film—you hear it again and again—is “Drunk for Life” by Sally Yeh, a Cantonese pop singer. This is a song I listened to when I was in junior high. At the time, young people tended to hang out in the video arcade, and this was one of the songs heard there. It was also a theme song for John Woo’s The Killer. That film, in the triad genre, is very similar to the John Woo motif that I want to evoke in this film.

The third song in this film is “How Much Love Can Be Repeated?” This sequence was actually shot 12 years ago in Three Gorges, when I made Still Life. I think the reason why I wanted to use it was that it could create this interesting contrast between what was happening on stage and Zhao’s character off stage, when you see her reaction watching this performance. Mind you, the on-stage part was shot 12 years ago, but Zhao’s part was shot last year. Hopefully, you cannot tell that these two footages were from two different times and spaces.

Was any of the other Three Gorges footage shot for Still Life, or shot when you were making that film? I know you shot a lot of documentary footage there at the time.

Only that particular clip was shot 12 years ago. The rest, we went back to the same location and tried to capture what we did in Still Life. But, unlike in other parts of the film, where we tend to use digital video, for the Three Gorges part we use film stock. That’s why it gives you a sense of nostalgia, evoking what happened in the past.

You’ve worked in digital video for a long time, partly because it allowed you to bypass processing labs, which would not have developed your films because they weren’t government-approved. Digital video also made it much easier for your films to be copied and disseminated in China when they weren’t being played in theaters. Are there also things that you prefer artistically about using digital video, especially now that it can do so much more than it could early on?

Starting in 2001, using DV to shoot Unknown Pleasures, I didn’t think of it just for practical purposes. DV as a medium has its own aesthetics that I can really explore and develop. Using DV you can create a close proximity between the camera and the actors and actresses, a kind of intimacy that cannot be done through the traditional camera.

The other thing is, things that happen unexpectedly can be easily captured with DV cameras. With cameras that use film stock, things are usually highly scripted in a contained, particular environment. With DV you tend to have a lot of spontaneity and a lot of impromptu happenstances that can be easily captured.

It’s so important for people to share their stories and learn from history. To me, one of the most important forms of disruption in China since Mao is the way people have been barred from telling their stories, or made to alter what they say to fit some official narrative. So you’re performing an important service by writing history with your films, recording the story of the present and the recent past for the people of tomorrow.

I think that’s also why I rely a lot on DV. I joke that only the pace of the evolution of DV equipment can keep up with the pace of the development of China. For me, this film is very much about how, in this time span of 17 years, human connections and human emotions—the interpersonal relationships between people—evolves and changes as a result of all that. On the surface, you can see very clearly the changes pre-internet era and post-internet era, [things like how] in the past you had slow trains and now you have high-speed trains. But that is on the surface level. What I’m interested in exploring is what happened in terms of the inner world of those people in this particular historical context, how their relationships evolved or dissolved and the reasons for the dissolutions and the evolutions of their relationships.

You’ve said you like working with your wife partly because she becomes a kind of second author of your screenplays, adding detail to what you have written. Can you give an example of what she brought to this movie?

When she was in the cabin of the boat and the lady in black [a cabinmate] came in, she just, almost as a kneejerk reaction, stood up, suddenly and immediately. She was trying to capture what it would be like for someone who has been in prison for five years, how she would have reacted to a security guard entering the jail cell and how she would react the same way when this lady in black entered her cabin.

I see her training as a dancer a lot in the physicality of her acting.

Yes. Another example would be the water bottle in this film. It was used to evoke this same character in Still Life, and she carried that water bottle there too. It makes sense because of the weather; it was very hot so she would need to drink. But the water bottle also came in handy to enhance the mood I was trying to create. Zhao Tao took this on and really went for it. She used it as a weapon, she used it as a way to stop the door from closing,

And to avoid holding hands with the man she met on the train.

Exactly. She was using this bottle as a kind of third character in the film, thinking about how this can be expanded and explored.

Your work has faced such strong resistance from the Chinese government. What is the government’s response to your films these days, and how does that affect how you work or how your films are seen?

I make films based on my own ecology, my own tempo and rhythm. I don’t really think too much about whether or not the film can be shown in China. Of course, I would love if my film could be shown in China, but that’s not the only reason why I make films. The most important thing for me is to understand that that’s not the end goal, so I don’t need to somehow sacrifice and change the way I make films in order to be shown in China.

I will make the film I want to make, and if it can be shown in China, great. If not, so be it. That’s the way I interact with this particular censorship system. But I have to say that the situation has improved in terms of the communication channels. Those have opened up a lot more, so after I finish the film, I will do my best as a director to communicate to the censor bureau why this film should be shown in China. That I am willing to do. But I will not compromise the quality or any subject matter.

Translation by Vincent Cheng

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Every Cannes Palme d’Or Winner of the 2000s Ranked

There’s a certain formula that often defines the recipients of Cannes’s most prestigious prize.

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Every Cannes Palme d’Or Winner of the 2000s Ranked
Photo: Wild Bunch

There’s a certain formula that often defines the recipients of the Cannes Film Festival’s prestigious top prize, the Palme d’Or. These films, in recent years especially, tend to have a sense of importance about them (Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 9/11), frequently due to their sociopolitical awareness of the world (Laurent Cantet’s The Class), or of specific societal ills (Cristian Mungiu’s 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days). Very occasionally, the Palme d’Or goes to a bold, experimental, and divisive vision from a well-liked auteur (Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives), but more often it’s awarded to a film in the lineup that the most people on the Cannes jury can probably agree is good (Ken Loach’s I, Daniel Blake). And in less than three months, we’ll see if Alejandro G. Iñárritu’s jury will follow any sort of predictable formula when it announces its winners.

You’ll find us on the Croisette this May, covering most of the titles in Cannes’s competition slate. Until then, enjoy our ranking of the Palme d’Or winner from the 2000s. Sam C. Mac

Editor’s Note: This entry was originally published on May 1, 2018.


The Son’s Room

19. The Son’s Room (2001)

Halfway through The Son’s Room, director Nanni Moretti shifts the rhetoric of his narrative away from an exaggerated view of happy domesticity and into a realm of weepy melodrama. Psychiatrist Giovanni (Moretti) is a perfect father and husband: he helps his daughter with her Latin homework (perducto means “without hardship you will be guided”—wink, wink); allows her boyfriend to exalt grass (when high, the boy says he’s “looking at the universe”); and initiates group lip-synching during the family’s car trips. Nicola Piovani’s score grotesquely heightens the joy behind every smile, meaning disaster is inevitable. As Moretti delves deeper into Giovanni’s work, focus is shifted away from the family arena. Though the film blooms when Paola (Laura Morante) and the family seek deliverance from their pain by connecting with a girl their deceased son, Andrea (Giuseppe Sanfelice), met at summer camp, Paola remains a cipher throughout. Cue Brian Eno’s “By This River,” which blares from a car radio as the family stands near the sea that killed their Andrea: “Here we are stuck by this river/You and I underneath a sky/That’s ever falling down, down, down.” In this one stoic moment, not only does the family seemingly escape their grief but also the Rob Reiner soap opera Moretti trapped them in. Ed Gonzalez


Fahrenheit 911

18. Fahrenheit 911 (2004)

A mediocre director but a master PR man, Michael Moore is the father of the Happy Meal documentary: big fonts, quick-fire montages, celebrity cameos, causing elaborate scenes. Fahrenheit 9/11 is no less an attention-grabbing stunt than his Bowling for Columbine, but what a scene it is. At the time of its release, Moore’s compilation of the Bush I administration’s bamboozling of the American public in the wake of 9/11. More than 10 years after its release, though, what lingers most about the film is Moore’s self-aggrandizement and forced sanctimoniousness (he rah-rahs from the sidelines when an interviewee says something he agrees with, and you sometimes get a sense that he wouldn’t call a dying man an ambulance if it meant getting the money shot of the guy croaking). At least it’s some kind of mercy that he spends very little time on screen. Gonzalez


Amour

17. Amour (2012)

There’s a deceptiveness lurking deep within Amour, an insincerity that colors the drama, recasting it as a ploy. Whereas across earlier films Michael Haneke’s predilection for deceit served a high-minded, if still somewhat suspect, intellectual purpose (an interrogation of privilege and meaning in Caché, the deconstruction of genre in both versions of Funny Games, and so on), here his disingenuous approach is not only unwarranted, but is actually at odds with the tone and tenor of the drama. This suggests two possibilities: Either Haneke has attempted to shear his sensibility of trickery and failed to do so convincingly, or he has made an experiment in manipulation and feigned empathy so exacting and oblique that nobody has understood its real purpose (I wouldn’t put the latter past him). Either way, Amour intends to dupe us, to feed on our own pain and suffering. Moved to tears or scared to death, we’d all lose our dignity in the end. Calum Marsh


I, Daniel Blake

16. I, Daniel Blake (2016)

English stand-up comedian Dave Johns brings the sort of spontaneous energy to his eponymous character that’s consistently made Loach’s films worth keeping up with. But Blake’s storyline veers from its emotionally grounded setup and into grandstanding displays like the Michael Moore-worthy stunt from which I, Daniel Blake takes its title. Both principal actors have a strong enough sense of their characters, even as they’re pulled into increasingly harrowing places, to make the film a more successful one than Loach’s last few, but it’s still schematic and predictable, and it aggressively stacks the deck against Blake and Kattie (Hayley Squires) in a way that makes it more effective as social activism, and less so as drama. The Loach of two or three decades ago, who made intimate, naturalistic films about the working class, like 1969’s Kes and 1994’s Ladybird Ladybird, is distinctly different from the Loach of today—and the soapbox-prone I, Daniel Blake reaffirms how unlikely it is for that to change. Mac


The Class

15. The Class (2008)

When a plot finally emerges, it’s all about the quandaries of privileging principle (and principal) or empiricism, duty or personal preference, questions that have been implicit all along, even in kids’ protests that they’re always being picked on or favored. As a clever late twist suggests, the interactions themselves are almost all riffs on Socratic debates—usually, the teacher seems to be asking students to verify their claims so he can give himself time to rebut—and as director Laurent Cantet said at The Class’s New York Film Festival press conference, the school’s a place “where democracy is at stake.” Instead of the usual righteous monologues, this is a film of dialogue and dialogues, in which the bickering teachers’ conferences begin to echo the kids’ troublemaking and skepticism but for the adults’ pretense of understanding and decorum (everyone, in any case, has their reason and handily states it in close-up). It would make a perfect, though not particularly good, double feature with Frederick Wiseman’s documentary State Legislature or Advise and Consent. David Phelps

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