Aaron Katz's COLD WEATHER

The supposed post-awards pre-summer film doldrums definitely does not apply to the Twin Cities, and I'm not even talking about Sucker Punch. Stellar must-see films such as Poetry, Of Gods and Men, and Another Year, Certified Copy and Jane Eyre continue in theaters, but highest on that list should be Aaron Katz's Cold Weather which is playing at St Anthony Main Theaters.

My review of Cold Weather recently went up over at In Review Online.

Cold Weather is easily one of the best films of the year. But don't take my word for it. Check it out for yourself.

Im Sang-soo's THE HOUSEMAID (2010)

My review for Im Sang-soo's new film The Housemaid is up on In Review Online. It played in the Twin Cities a couple weeks back, but it will no doubt be available on DVD soon (and probably available on demand for all I know.)

The Housemaid is a film that pales in comparison to the stunning original from which it is based upon, but ignore the original and you have a dark and unrelenting thriller. Unfortunately, that was something I could not do. I was a big fan of Im's The President's Last Bang which is a wry comedy about the assassination of former South Korean President Park Chung-hee in 1979. The Housemaid has the same commitment to a tone of discord, but it is, in my opinion, a throw away compared to Kim Ki-young's 1960 masterpiece.

(Do yourself a favor: buy the Region Free DVD of the original Housemaid here.)

(Edit 3/19/11 - Just realized you can watch Kim Ki-young's The Housemaid free on Mubi.)

Darren Aronofsky's BLACK SWAN

My review of the very well received Black Swan is up over at In Review Online. Black Swan continues to do really well at the box office and is collecting top ten accolades around the globe. This trend will no doubt continue when the Oscar nominations are announced where we are sure to see Natalie Portman and Darren Aronofsky's names in the lineup. I think part of the brilliance of Black Swan is it's sincerity to simply exist as a thriller. Every great scene, every great performance, every great edit, and every great narrative twist all has the same common goal: to provide an entertaining ride. The accolades and the awards are just the outcome of that commitment.

Johnnie To's VENGEANCE

I wrote a review for Johnnie To's most recent film Vengeance for In Review Online that went up over the weekend. At first glancee, Vengeance seems like a departure for To. A French/Hong Kong co-production, Vengeance includes a couple key French actors to shake things up. Sylvie Testud has a small role in which she delivers a couple good lines in Cantonese, and French pop star Johnny Halladay is the film's irrefutable star and anchor (although no Cantonese spoken here.) Once the film smoothly slides into its modus operandi with Anthony Wong, Lam Suet Lam Ka-tung and Simon Yam in tow, it becomes a leisurely stroll of patented five-star Johnnie To action. Nothing too new here, but a lot to enjoy.

Vengeance has been available for some time on DVD from Hong Kong and on demand from IFC, but recently made a theatrical appearance in NY and LA.

Zhang Yimou's A WOMAN A GUN AND A NOODLE SHOP

My review for A Woman, a Gun and a Noodle Shop is now up on In Review Online.

Although I really hate to say it, this film is a mess. I saw A Woman, a Gun and a Noodle Shop before I headed off to Vancouver, and the more I think about it (and compare it to some of the amazing films I've seen in the past couple of weeks) the more I'm convinced that this crazy idea to remake Blood Simple into a Chinese period piece is just that: crazy. The unfortunate component to slamming this film is that Zhang is no slouch and has brought a well crafted film to the table.

(This poster speaks louder than words. Even when I look at it, I wonder "What is going on!?" If it seems like it has a Stephen Chow/Chinese Odyssey element to it, that is not far off the mark.) Read here.

Yael Hersonski's A FILM UNFINISHED (2010)

My review of A Film Unfinished is up at In Review Online.

It's strange how a reiteration of things you already know can be so powerful. A Film Unfinished is just such a documentary. It doesn't reveal anything new or anything we didn't already know about the Nazis. However, this close inspection of a propaganda film shot in the Warsaw Ghetto in those tenuous months in mid-1942, sits in the chest like a rock. As quoted on the film's website by director Yael Hersonski: "A Film Unfinished first emerged out of my theoretical preoccupation with the notion of the 'archive', and the unique nature of the witnessing it bears." This documentary starts with theory and curiosity but is finished with a great deal of compassion. A fascinating and heartbreaking film.

I think this may have played in the Twin Cities while I was out of town. It will likely come out on DVD early next year.

Casey Affleck's I'M STILL HERE (2010)

My review for Casey Affleck's I'm Still Here is up on In Review Online. If you could award prizes for an enduring performance, Joaquin Phoenix would surely win. However, my disappointment in Affleck's admission of the hoax continues to grow. I saw the film before he let the cat out the bag, and most of my enjoyment and observations are reliant on the absurd is-it-real-or-not debate. Reports continue to flood in: Letterman knew about it, Paltrow knew about it and on and on, like they all want a pat on the back. I'm Still Here is an incredibly funny film, and I could care less if Phoenix's sincerity is any more or less than his sincerity for Leonard Kraditor or Johnny Cash.

(I'm also having the worst brain fart on the title, writing I'm Not Here almost every time without fail - also an apropos title!)

Alexandre Aja's PIRANHA 3D

My review for Piranha 3D is up on In Review Online and as my editor astutely noted on Twitter: I didn't like it much. I could have easily watched Piranha 3D and walked away from it, but forced with the task of thinking about it and critically assessing it...well, let's just say it didn't make me more fond of it. It is a ridiculous use of 3D, nudity, blood and CGI. Bitter about not being able to walk away from it, I give it half a star.

Ben Wheatley's DOWN TERRACE

(Down Terrace played at the Sound Unseen Duluth International Film Festival earlier this year, and recently opened in NYC. Hopefully it will make a pass through the Twin Cities; it's a nasty litte comedy. This review was originally publish on In Review Online.)

Ten years ago some friends and I stumbled across a British SNL-type television series called “Jam.” Forget “Monty Python,” “Jam” was a mixed bag of some of the darkest and most off-kilter humor I had ever seen and continues to make me howl every time I watch it. Created by Chris Morris, director of the recent feature Four Lions, “Jam” is proof that the seeds for a film like Down Terrace had already been sown, as it traverses much of the same territory in tone and production. Director Ben Wheatley uses his television know-how from UK comedies “Ideal” and “Wrong Door” to create an unexpectedly wry and deathly dark comedy about a family of odd, low level gangsters.

The film opens as Bill and his son Karl are released from jail on charges that apparently did not hold up in court. They are eager to find who ratted them out, but not until they have had a few beers and smoked a little weed. Bill’s wife Maggie busies herself in making tea and helping Karl who has the ability to throw a fit at the drop of a hat. The three of them criticize and ridicule their random associates that show up to the house, but there is no evidence that they are any different. Bill waxes poetically about transcendentalism, Karl reunites with his now very pregnant ex-girlfriend (much to his parents chagrin) and Maggie emerges as the placid ball-buster of the family and, to some extent, the larger network of the family. Meanwhile the three of them independently start ‘cleaning house’ with droll brutality.

The handheld camerawork and the less-than-dynamic sound may be a form of necessity and comfort for Ben Wheatley, directing his first feature, but it also allows Down Terrace to masquerade its twisted intentions as a docile sitcom. Any attempt to pin down the genre is eventually replaced by trying to wrap your head around these absurd characters that seem less like hardened criminals than two-bit thugs trying to convince everyone (including themselves) that they are hardened criminals. Wheatley’s whip-smart script is perfectly complemented by the ease in which the actors fill the shoes of the incongruous characters. It’s no surprise that the actors who play Bill and Karl are father and son and that Karl’s girlfriend is also his girlfriend off screen. Despite their quirky nature, there is a comfort in which the family sways between clashing and cooperating.

Karl writes his manifest destiny in the family and surfaces as the unlikely star of the film. Played by Robin Hill, who also co-wrote the script with Wheatley, Karl is an unsympathetic man-child clumsily making his own rules. Evidence of coddling from his parents hilariously erupts and then disappears. Shortly after he reconnects with his girlfriend, they are up in his room having a heart-to-heart when Karl suggest they pull out some of the letters she wrote to him in jail as a way to rekindle their affection. He spends about 5 seconds looking for them in his cluttered room before he is convinced that someone taken them. Rendered immobile, he stands upright and simply starts screaming, “Mum! Mum!” at the top of his lungs like a toddler who just lost his teddy bear. Right at the moment you think he is going to go physically ballistic, he looks over and calmly says, “Oh. Here they are.” The bizarre moment is over, but scenes like this set an erratic tone for the entire film.

Down Terrace chronicles two weeks of events and non-events surrounding Bill, Maggie and Karl. The days are marked by on screen intertitles that remind you how much or how little happens, usually in the close confines of the trio’s small flat. The film spirals downward pretty quickly and unfortunately, due to the cheeky nature of the film, it fails to have the effect that it should. Although Down Terrace never rises above the dark cynicism of comedic surreality, it does so with such clever plain-spoken subtlety that the discarded weight of the body bags hardly matters. Down Terrace adds a fresh, but slightly bitter and dispassionate, take on the gangster genre that revels in low-gloss of filmmaking and dark idiosyncrasies of human nature.

Serge Bromberg and Ruxandra Medrea's HENRI-GEORGES CLOUZOT'S INFERNO

(Inferno played at MSPIFF and opened in NYC a few weeks ago. Although it seems unlikely that it will make a second appearance in the Twin Cities, look for it on DVD in a few months. Originally published on In Review Online.)

Although the story of Henri-Georges Clouzot’s L’Enfer began over 45 years ago, the short history of this documentary began in a Paris elevator where director Serge Bromberg was stuck for two hours with the widow of the celebrated French director. Their conversation easily drifted to Clouzot’s films but eventually landed on his one true regret, the unfinished L’Enfer (aka Inferno or more poignantly Hell) and the 185 cans of unused film sitting dormant. This incredible moment of serendipity is laid out in the prologue of Henri-Georges Clouzot’s Inferno, but what isn’t mentioned is the light bulb that must have been glowing in the film archivist’s head within the close quarters of that elevator. The compulsory comment, that Bromberg must have uttered as delicately as possible during the conversation, is almost palpable: “I would love to take a look at those reels of film.” Fortunately, there must have been something in Bromberg that Inès de Gonzalez trusted enough to allow him and co-director Ruxandra Medrea full access to the footage of what could have been Clouzot’s greatest success, but turned into his greatest failure. Inferno unveils a revelatory patchwork of Clouzot’s swoon-worthy footage that will have you wishing you could turn back the hands of time and alter the film’s cruel fate.

Inferno is a balancing act of discovering the unseen hours of film Clouzot shot, and giving it some context. Built from interviews with the crew, the documentary dissects a production fueled and doomed by obsession. In 1964 L’Enfer was the highly anticipated follow up to La Vérité from Clouzot, a director sometimes referred to as the French Hitchcock. Even before the first clapperboard was snapped, L’Enfer was being built up to be Clouzot’s best yet, even at his own assessment. About a man consumed by jealousy, this relatively large production received a point-blank “unlimited budget” from Columbia executives who had simply seen some of the screen tests. Assembling a star cast, with Romy Schneider and Serge Reggiani in the leads, and a talented crew, L’Enfer became consumed by possibilities that no one but Clouzot seemed to understand. Obsessed with manipulating sound and image that would fit the mood of his madness, Clouzot plagued his crew with changes and rewrites that sent many people packing, including Reggiani. Just as it seemed that the film had been pushed to the brink and beyond, Clouzot suffered a heart attack and, by orders from the doctor, L’Enfer came to an abrupt and portentous halt.

What is left is hours of footage that are so incredibly seductive, on a visual and emotional level, it’s completely astounding and heartbreaking that nothing ever came of it. Much of what we see in Inferno are the artful screen tests with Schneider, the images of which will haunt my dreams for an eternity. Clouzot’s camera seems to have taken on the same obsessive quality towards Schneider as her fictional husband would have in the film, with no end to the experiments with Schneider’s alluring face as the hypnotic focal point. Much of the soundtrack lost, Bromberg and Medrea try to build a well-rounded portrait of L’Enfer by staging portions of the script. But these digressions feel like having to eat your vegetables before you can have your cake. There is an analytical draw to the interviews with the production crew and to the analysis of Clouzot’s meticulous storyboards and preparations, but it doesn’t compared to the visceral pull of the film that Clouzot had a hand in. Even the straightforward black and white takes of Reggiani’s character contain the subtle mysterious aura of this ill-fated film. Unfortunately the three people who truly could have added another dimension to the documentary—Clouzot, Reggiani and Schneider—have all passed away leaving an undeniable gap in understanding Clouzot and L’Enfer.

The signs of the brilliance inside the chaos are there but painfully unsubstantiated. Imagine watching Hearts of Darkness if Apocalypse Now was never finished: this is what Henri-Georges Clouzot’s Inferno is. You get the feeling that Clouzot, a dogged planner, set out to show those off-the-cuff New Wavers how to make a cutting edge film, but his ambition and perhaps his ego completely did him in. After his heat attack, he worked for a few years in television earning enough money to finance his last film La Prisonnière (1968), incorporating many of the hallucinatory effects from L’Enfer with limited yet bizarre effect. Was this the film that Clouzot wanted to make in 1964? I don’t think so. But neither was Claude Chabrol’s half-hearted 1994 adaptation of the same name. Henri-Georges Clouzot’s Inferno tenders a fragmented tease open to endless speculation. Although Bromberg and Medrea have done a great service in bringing pieces of the unfinished film to an audience, their greatest achievement is pushing aside the idea that L’Enfer was a failure while immortalizing Clouzot’s creative zeal. The original source material will leave your head spinning with the images of a masterpiece that was not meant to be, but the documentary itself will leave you longing for more.

Lisa Cholodenko's THE KIDS ARE ALL RIGHT

(Originally published on In Review Online.)

The debate over the 1989 children’s book “Heather has Two Mommies” seems like a cultural millennium ago, but that doesn’t mean that the era has ushered in the kind of social acceptance or progressive politics one would have expected. Instead it has been a mixed bag of uphill climbs and road bumps epitomized by the current seesaw battle for gay marriage in California. Befuddling hate mongering politics masquerading as moral high ground certainly isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, but small signs point to the fact that society (with a little help from the law and a more rational Supreme Court) may be ready to move on. Acting as both an innovator and a reactionary, Lisa Cholodenko’s The Kids Are All Right is a welcome sign of the times: a film full of vivaciousness about a family with two women at the helm where (gasp!) politics are nowhere to be found.

Nic (Annette Bening) and Jules (Julianne Moore) and their two teenage kids, Laser (Josh Hutchenson) and Joni (Mia Wasikowska), are an average family in every way with the exception that Nic and Jules are lesbians. But no one seems to care, including Laser’s skate punk friend who uses the word ‘faggot’ as if oblivious to its meaning beyond a slur. Nic and Jules’ marriage is far from perfect, but it is even farther from unusual. The comfort of trite bickering and the ease of mutual appreciation represent a typical, if not stereotypical, twenty-year-plus relationship, regardless of gender. Nic is the mother of Joni and Jules is the mother of Laser, but both were born using the sperm from the same anonymous donor. Laser pressures Joni, who just turned 18, into pursuing her adult privilege of contacting their donor father. Enter Paul (Mark Ruffalo), an earthy and virile urban farmer named who owns a restaurant. The kids meet Paul on the sly with the assumption that it would not go beyond one visit. But opening that genetic door leaves lingering questions. In an attempt to be open and sensitive to their kids’ needs, Nic and Jules invite Paul over which culminates in Paul hiring Jules to do some landscaping and seemingly sending the group down the road to alternative family bliss. The easy-going Paul dives head first into his role of friend and father to the kids and libido leaning confidant to Jules. Nic—the breadwinner who wears the type A pants in the family—is the odd woman out and is rightly suspicious of the relationships her family is building with Paul.

Every moment in this film sparkles with a refreshing humor and sincerity. Whether it’s Jules sharing an overly rational explanation for gay-man-porn to Laser or Joni inarticulately expressing disappointment in Paul, The Kids Are All Right never loses its bubbly veracity. Cholodenko enlists five actors who make this film not only extremely watchable but also entirely believable. Bening and Moore embody the affectations of a couple to a tee. Their California characters fall somewhere between the “L Word” and “Weeds” and “Parenthood,” movie or TV show. Bening shines at a dinner party where she gives an a cappella rendition of Joni Mitchell’s “Blue” and moments later silently and personally confronts her partner’s infidelity. Unfortunately, the film’s need to be contrary and funny occasionally backs the characters into superficial corners. The tirade that Nic gives on composting, açaí and hemp milk is over-the-top in its attempt to be antithetical and humorous. Likewise, the script occasionally pulls back from melodrama, as if it might get burned. Jules gives an explanation for her poor sexual judgment (using the particularly poignant and well delivered line “marriage is a fucking marathon”) in a soliloquy to her family that is incredibly heartfelt, but shyly backs away by capping it with an innocent but mood killing quip about Russian novels.

The narrative set up is perfect for a late-in-life homo-reformation sermon, but thankfully Cholodenko asserts her team pride and hits a hard line drive, earning RBIs from all of us who hardly see orientation as a choice. But she doesn’t do so without acknowledging it. Privy of Jules’ infidelity, Nic asks the incredulous question that hangs in the air: “Are you straight now?” Even if her denial is not convincing, Jules shortly thereafter conclusively responds to Paul’s attempts to win her over by stating “Paul. I’m gay.” in such a no-duh tone that it nearly bowled over my wavering expectations with surprise. The tryst induced family crisis is handled with candor and honesty on an individual level, regardless of orientation. Paul quickly shifts from mysterious hunky donor daddy to thoughtless home-wrecker in the eyes of Joni and Laser and to self-indulgent ‘interloper’ in the eyes of Nic. Jules might be wearing the scarlet letter around the house, but her bond to Nic, Joni and Laser is not as easily dismissed as Paul’s—his harsh treatment is not about blame, but the emotional survival of the family.

Cholodenko received critical acclaim for High Art and Laurel Canyon, but The Kids Are All Right will likely be a breakout better defined once the awards season hits. In limited release, this subtle little family comedy was neck-and-neck with blockbuster supreme Inception in per screen revenue. Although every good film needs to hold its own outside of the cultural implications that might cushion critique, it is impossible not to take note of the assimilation of The Kids Are All Right (and how it differs from the love affair with Lisbeth Sanders.) Tearing the rainbow flag and the protest signs from our hands, Cholodenko has taken a bold step by making a film that moves an entire community beyond martyrdom and indignation, shifting, ever so slightly, the image of lesbian couples and families to anything but abnormal. Although I have never subscribed to the cause-and-effect influence of popular entertainment when the debate is geared towards violence begetting violence, is there any chance that a populist drama can beget tolerance? Subversive in its normalcy, The Kids Are All Right triumphs with a refreshing take on the American family, propelled by a stellar cast and an uncanny knack for honesty, familiarity and wit.

Phillip Noyce's SALT

Salt's day has come and gone. It put up a good fight against Inception, but then got buried by Dinner for Schmucks. Who is Salt? She's a Russian spy. Here's a review I wrote for In Review Online:

Fostering redundant conversations about celebrity culture and nauseating puns on table seasonings comes with the territory of making a film with Angelina Jolie entitled Salt. Treading half-baked Cold War waters with a mix of earnest spy intrigue ala Sidney Bristow and Jason Bourne, Salt delivers just enough swift kicks to the head that you almost forget that you wanted anything more nuanced or complex. The film opens in North Korea where the evil doers du jour are torturing Evelyn Salt (Jolie) as she unconvincingly repeats, “I am not a spy…I am a businesswoman.” As it turns out, of course, Salt works covert operations for the CIA. Freed though a diplomatic trade, she returns home to the normalcy of pushing papers for the CIA and folding napkins in preparation for her wedding anniversary. None too soon, however, a mysterious, but oddly well-informed, Russian defector turns up fingering our heroin as a mole. Her staunch colleague, played with furrow planted in brow by Liev Schreiber, voices his doubts about the accusation while the contradictory FBI agent, a role that demands little from Chiwetel Ejiofor, wants her detained immediately. Feeling trapped and fearing for the safety of her husband, Salt displays her army-of-one capabilities, eludes homeland plus security and flees with suspicious intentions. What ensues is a typical cat and mouse that satisfyingly allows Salt to flaunt her feminine brains and brawn.

Director Phillip Noyce is not so much recycling formulas that worked in Patriot Games and Clear and Present Danger than he is watering them down to essential action elements that barely register any twist. Salt’s potential double agent status feels randomly inconsequential and her enemies are, coincidentally, the people who show up in her dubiously motivated path. Fortunately, most of the mundane, if not flawed, plot is buried beneath well-honed physical action that rests on Jolie’s slight but confident shoulders, including a stairway murder near the end of the film that is as surprising as it is fierce. Although Salt couldn’t be more topical with the recent arrest of a Russian spy ring and by sharing a name with the 1970s treaties (a far more interesting innuendo than the stuff sitting on your table), escapism is not so high minded to draw such correlations. Much like “Alias,” Salt leaves real world believability behind in favor of base level entertainment.

Angelina Jolie adequately fills the shoes left empty by Tom Cruise for the role of Salt and is up to the task of the film’s grounded physicality. Her counterparts never stand a chance against her charisma that is more about being Angelina Jolie than it is Evelyn Salt and she even plays a pretty good young man with the help of prosthetics—facial prosthetics, that is. Her character, however, is placid at best, and never earns enough sympathy for us to care about what Salt 2 has in store. The only emotional gravity you can find in Salt is in the cute little doggy that Evelyn Salt must abandon to save the US President (coincidentally played by a soap opera star) and the world. The plot holes are big enough to drive a North Korean submarine through and the narrative is so deliberate it’s a little insulting, but Salt keeps running, jumping, shooting, kicking and hitting as if that is all that matters. Falling well below Phillip Noyce’s highs but above Angelina Jolie’s lows, Salt hurtles unambiguously down a path of least resistance and innovation to satisfy the genre’s easiest customer.

Soi Cheang's ACCIDENT (2009)

(The dust and the blister packs on my recent DVDs is a telltale sign: I spend too much time in the theater and not enough in the comfort of my own home. In an attempt to catch up, I'll be posting some thoughts on these movies as time allows.)

Soi Cheang takes a step back from his Cat III wanderings in the blistering Dog Bite Dog and the ridiculous Shamo to tackle a far more commercially viable vehicle with Accident. Under Johnny To's wing as producer, Accident is a well made film that never takes the extra step to challenge the audience, unless you include the unbelievable circumstances that we are asked to swallow right up to the big finale. But in some respects, the over-the-top contrivances feed the movie's themes and ultimately the central character's paranoia that there is no such thing as an accident.

The opening sequence sets the stage and presents a progression of events that fall as as neatly as a line of dominoes, resulting in the bizarre death of a triad member. Through precision and timing, the film subtly reveals that this is no normal chain of events. On a tight busy street, a woman gets a flat tire a flies into distress mode, causing the gentleman behind her to take an alternate route. Not so coincidentally, he passes a truck that sloshes water on the driver as a large banner falls on the windshield of his car. Irritated, the driver jumps out of the car, yanks the banner down from where it is attached. A wire snaps from above, a window shatters, and a shower of broken broken glass pummel the man, killing him. The woman with the flat, the old man driving the truck, the man in charge of the banner and a calm observer of the eventual death are the discrete masterminds behind the assassination masquerading as a mishap.

Louis Koo plays, Brains, the leader of the pack with Stanley Fung, Lam Suet, and Michelle Ye filling out this foursome of unlikely guns for hire. Although each member no doubt has their own talent to bring to the team, it's Brain's and his need for perfection that gives them the knack for successfully pulling off the impossible. But Stanley Fung's aging character seems to be losing his edge to either typical forgetfulness or some form of dementia. This new weak link intersects with a new job that goes terribly awry. Brains, a sweaty mess of obsession and paranoia, is secretly convinced that the accident within the accident is...well, no accident. He connects their client with a mysterious banker who may or may not have ties to his past and the untimely death of his girlfriend.

Watching the story unfold is only surprising in the measure of control Cheang uses to direct Koo down a gently declining slope of mania. Great pains are taken to show, not tell, just how tweeky our hero is as he barely keeps a handle on his rationality. Koo is responsible for quietly carrying the film, with the rest of the cast, including Richie Ren who plays the banker, barely the get the screentime to perform. Invited to a half a dozen film festivals, Accident may usher in a new era for Soi Cheang. Although fully satisfying on one level, Accident disappoints only because Cheang has set people up to expect the unexpected, even if it is an overworked mess such as Dog Bites Dog or a horror head-scratcher such as the fantastically titled Horror Hotline: Big Head Monster.

Watch the trailer for Accident here.

Catherine Breillat's A REAL YOUNG GIRL (1976)

Oh, my poor neglected blog. Here's a review, full of keywords that will surely bring out the spammy comments, that I wrote for an upcoming In Review Online feature on the films of Catherine Breillat. I chose to review her debut feature (which I hadn't seen at the time) thinking it would be tamer than her more infamous films like Romance or Fat Girl. What I learned in the process was that Breillat had been arming her battle stations as a novelist for over ten years before embarking on her career as a film director and that A Real Young Girl may be her most audacious film to date. There is little irony that the abrupt and 'shocking' ending is overshadowed by the films overall brazenness. Experiencing A Real Young Girl is overwhelming, to say the least, but it is also a film worth considering from two steps back, which I've tried to do here.

Catherine Breillat ushers in her filmmaking career with similar controversy that accompanied her writing career. Her directorial debut, A Real Young Girl, instantly paved the trajectory for one of the most compelling oeuvre in cinematic past, present and future. Clear eyed and focused, Breillat steps into the filmmaking ring and throws a defiant punch in the face that will likely take just about anyone by surprise. Adapted from her own novel, Le Soupirail, A Real Young Girl would have been the film that gave pause to the chauvinistic French film celebration, had it gotten the attention it deserved. Walking a fine line between soft-core porn and arthouse drama, this lucid shocker was brushed under the rug until its eventual release in 1999, almost 25 years after the fact. Even 35 years later, this film feels like a subversive bitch slap to the on-screen clichés of feminism in film. (See the inane conversation about ‘women’s films’ after Kathryn Bigelow’s Best Picture Oscar.) Breillat makes the men the passive objects and unapologetically treats a teenage girl as a vibrant sexual being instead of a visual sexual object, quietly begging the question of how many times we’ve seen just the opposite. Although audacious and subversive, A Real Young Girl feels far more personal than a film simply motivated by the base transgression that got it sidelined.

Much of the cause célèbre lies not only in the blunt shots of genitalia but also in the crude juxtapositions—sticky flypaper and unorthodox masturbation or the slaughter of a chicken and abstract sexual fantasies—generated from the perspective of a bored misanthropic bourgeois teenager named Alice. Forced to spend her summer vacation at her parents’ quiet country home, Alice spends her days honing her self-awareness by either traipsing through a littered field with her panties pulled down or reveling in the ‘liberation’ of her own warm vomit. Her adversary is her stern mother and her puppet is her plump, dandyish father. Enter Jim, a sullen and fit mystery man who works at her father’s sawmill. The hunky laborer sparks Alice’s post-pubescent exploration of unbound fantasies and desires. Coyly showing up at the mill, Alice attempts to lure Jim with seductive glimpses through the stacks of lumber or by not-so-subtly lifting her skirt as she gets on her bike. This is all foreplay for the fantasies Alice will build about Jim, as aggressor and self-pleasing companion, while she negotiates the mundane yet turbulent world at large.

For the duration, we are held hostage by Alice’s brazen psyche, making for an unsettling ride not unlike a scene where Alice provocatively joins a man on an amusement park ride only to be disgusted by his jerking off. Although A Real Young Girl is a dreamy blend of fact and fantasy, you can also envision that the entire film takes place inside Alice’s head as she lies on her bed with her eyes closed. Breillat’s depiction of femininity in revolt may be an assault, but it is also fastidiously unique. Alice’s innocence exists in the lack of humility, not in naiveté or stupidity. But Alice is also nothing more than a typical teenager, flushed with contradictory emotions and susceptible to the same social influences as everyone else. Breillat infuses the story with a catchy and banal pop song “Am I a Young Girl” that resonates with Alice: “I’m a little girl. I don’t know, no I don’t know. How big a girl I am, only you can tell. Please, please, tell me, tell me now, what you like about me.” When Alice hears the song on the radio, she admits her gullible connection to the song—and her very simple desire to be understood—and addresses the singer: “I’d do anything for that woman.” Made years before the world realized Catherine Breillat’s nuances and before she was crowned heir apparent of the New French Extremity, A Real Young Girl matches debut mettle with dauntless muster by tackling themes and presenting images in a bold analytical statement.

Floria Sigismondi's THE RUNAWAYS

(Originally published on In Review Online.)

The Runaways’ place in rock history—somewhere between feminal compatriots Patti Smith and the Go-Go’s yet buried under a marginalized LA punk scene dominated by The Germs and X—is slight at best. An analytical survey or even critical analysis, however, will never reveal the tabloid worthy story of five underage girls thrust into the male dominated rock culture of 1975. First time feature director Floria Sigismondi is given the impossible task of translating a cliché riddled narrative into respectable ticket-selling entertainment with some sort of fan-adoring accuracy. Parlay the chore with two high profile young Hollywood starlets and you have expectations that are likely to trump the film itself. Although far from perfect, The Runaways is able to deliver some of its own ‘dead end justice’ by cashing in on Sigismondi’s music video flair and two convincing performances from Kristen Stewart and Dakota Fanning who are able to transcend their tweeny Twilight ways.

The film opens with a visceral drop of menstrual blood hitting the pavement—the result of Cherie Currie’s blossoming womanhood and an unambiguous statement of the film’s own defiance. Unlike Zack Snyder’s wish to epitomize revelatory bloodshed through a drop of glossy red on a smiley face in The Watchmen, Sigismondi offers a far more personal invocation of unchecked, yet no less celebratory, fertile bloodletting. As Currie procures her period, so Joan Jett procures a leather jacket. The portrait of two awkward teenagers quickly, and somewhat heavy-handedly, transform into those of rock stars in the fast lane. Jett’s ambitions are the catalyst, approaching well-known LA producer Kim Fowley, exclaiming, “I play electric guitar.” You can see the Svengali gears turning as Fowley ropes in a drummer, guitar player and bass player with promises that they would be bigger than The Beatles. Fowley saw the appeal of a heavy hitting all girl rock band, but also realized the need for a sex kitten front woman: in his own words, a Bridget Bardot or, in the case of The Runaways, 15-year-old Cherie Currie. And so The Runaways were born—they gain moderate success, indulge in various substances, engage in sex, emote the problems of teenage rock stars, and eventually cash and burn with the inevitable promise of rebirth and recovery.

The story is about as pat as any episode of VH1’s “Behind the Music” but Sigismondi is able to turn it into something far more appealing, despite narrative stops and starts. Resisting the temptation to go overboard with the era, the production design is a perfect balance of west coast fashion and grit of the day. The music is a visual rally cry, where you see and hear both director and actors at their best. Stewart unequivocally becomes the slouchy Joan Jett and Fanning morphs into the brash Cherie Curie, not to mention the likeness of Stella Maeve and Scout Taylor-Compton to Sandy West and Lita Ford. Unfortunately, stilted scenes meant to propel or expound the story end up deflating these moments of musical elation. A sequence in which Currie goes to audition for the band and the song “Cherry Bomb” is written— on the spot—seems bogus despite its factual bearing. Although instrumental in the so-called character development of the band, its portrayal is flat and lifeless. So too is Currie’s ultimate departure from the band and she tells Jett, “I can’t do this anymore; I want my life back.” Jett’s unsurprising reply is almost too predictable: “This is my life.” The band’s epoch is the film’s dramatic missed opportunity.

Looking at The Runaways creditials, it is no coincidence that the film hovers around Jett and Currie and their various triages. Both Cherie Currie (offering up her titillating autobiography for source material) and Joan Jett (on staff as executive producer) were involved from the beginning, working closely with director and actors. The other band members fade into the background, giving room for Michael Shannon, master of crazy, to bring maniacal Kim Fowley to vivid life. His desire to exploit the young women from just about every angle and to verbally and physically pummel them into punk rock goddesses is the film’s morality play. During a practice session in a broken down trailer, Fowley screams, “This isn’t about women’s lib, it’s about women’s libido!” Fortunately, Sigismondi finds parity in The Runaway’s story between burgeoning libido and eventual liberation. This sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll biopic plays out as one might expect, but there is also a tasteful amount of restraint, leaving out the most sensational portions of the band’s history, including rape, pregnancy, attempted suicide and enough internal strife among the five band members to create a soap opera that would give “The L Word” a run for its money. Jett, a tireless rocker even today, has always urged people to appreciate the music, not the rumors, and, for better or worse, The Runaways does just that. Following a general trend in band bio-dramas, such as Control and What We Do is Secret, the dramatic interpretations of the music upstage the formal scripting of a well-documented and recent past. Sitting in a well-equipped movie theater and watching The Runaways perform, via Stewart and Fanning, may be the most perfect form of self-indulgent time travel I will ever get.

Patrick Alessandrin's DISTRICT 13: ULTIMATUM

(Alas, District 13: Ultimatum has already vanished from local theaters, but it will no doubt live a much longer life on Blu-Ray where you can loop those action together over and over again. This review was written for and published by In Review Online.)

For anyone who has spent hours on YouTube watching parkour videos, there is nothing more exhilarating than watching l'art du déplacement, the art of moving. Parkour, where city streets are turned into an obstacle coarse, navigates on the fringes of martial art, strength training and acrobatics. Adorn the athleticism with the most simple cinematic set-ups and parkour, or free running, quickly becomes a streetwise ballet. Anyone who has seen Casino Royale will inevitably bring up the riveting foot chase that opens the film, featuring one of the founders of parkour, Sébastien Foucan. But that was a mere flash in the parkour pan. It was form over function action producer, Luc Besson, who put the sport in the spotlight by making the stuntman the star. In this case, he recruited David Belle, one of the most influential and talented founders of the movement, to take his first lead role in the 2004 French action film Banlieue 13, also known as B-13 or District 13. High on action, low on plot, B-13 was a hit at home and an eventual modest success abroad. A sequel was all but a given.

District 13: Ultimatum picks up two years after the dynamic duo—by-the-book police Capt. Damien Tomaso and righteous ghetto revolutionary Leïto—expose the government of consciously allowing District 13 to run a road to ruin. A promise to restore order to the District and tear down the segregating walls that separate it from the rest of the city has been long forgotten. Instead, corrupt politicians have set their sights on some good old-fashioned 21st century gentrification with plans to raze the neighborhood (apparently along with the residents) and rebuild for the lifestyles of the rich and famous. The powers that be know their plan will never fly as long as saintly Capt. Damien Tomaso is on the streets with his nose to the ground. Even before Damien smells a rat, he is set up with a possession charge and thrown behind bars. Damien is counting on his fleet-footed buddy, Leïto, to break him out of jail and help him set the record straight. Joining forces once again, the muscle bound bon amis with a little help from the District 13 kingpins, must grapple, punch and kick their way to the truth.

David Belle and Cyril Raffaelli thankfully reprise their roles, as Leïto and Damien respectfully, adding charisma and physical prowess to a film that is otherwise burdened by its lame attempts to be witty. The film opens with Leïto still fighting the good fight for the disenfranchised residence of District 13. Caught trying to blow up the wall surrounding the district, police give chase to the man who loves to be chased. A pulse-driving cat and mouse run though the ghetto allows Belle to display his art with ease and elegance, leaving police in the dust or flat on their face. Damien is given a much more flamboyant and notable reintroduction. Deep within a cavernous nightclub a drug lord is ogling a female dancer from his throne. Just when the stereotypical degradation of women was getting particularly annoying, the film takes a brilliant turn and revels the dancer as our heroic detective dressed in drag, with satisfying gun in the face of the lecherous gangster. Unfortunately, the scene plays out a little too long—cutting between Damien’s made-up face and to ‘his’ impossibly buxom ass, over and over again—draining the sequence of all its momentary cleverness. The lull, however, gives way to one of the best sequences in the film. Breaking free of his wig and dress, Damien displays his more manly skills, fighting off numerous baddies while protecting a Van Gogh painting. Expertly choreographed, the show down is the shining example why Ultimatum, flawed as it is, remains entertaining.

The action fares well in the hands of director Patrick Alessandrin, who took on the sequel after B-13 director Pierre Morel moved on to bigger but not necessarily better things with Taken and From Paris with Love. Ultimatum does not carry the first installment's ethos that editing creates excitement and, settling on middle range shots, allows a little more space to enjoy the physical talents of not only Belle and Raffaelli, but the supporting cast as well. Major credit must go to Raffaelli who coordinated the fights and, in a shift from the first film, steals the show from Belle and his mind-blowing parkour. Unfortunately it doesn’t save the film from erratic pacing and a very overworked plot. The government makes for a placid cardboard enemy and the expositions into their dodgy maneuverings bring the film to an apathetic standstill. References to Halliburton, although funny, are about five years too late and civil unrest in Paris was an international headline that has come and gone. The original B-13 was able to tap into a social pulse that now seems dead, and Ultimatum lumbers under the weight of misguided deviations away from the action. Encumbered by a plodding and characterless pseudo-political drama, District 13: Ultimatum proves that good guy charisma and top-notch action can only carry a film so far.

Best of 2009: Movies

As with most years, I spent the beginning of 2009 catching up on the best of 2008. Most notably, these included Che, in its full 4 1/2 hour theatrical splendor, Waltz With Bashir and Wendy and Lucy—all three more than worthy of year end list making and revelry that has already past. And as 2009 blurs into 2010, so does the marker for championing the year's best films, so I'll give it my best shot as things stand today. For the first time in a very long time, the hubbub at this years Cannes Film Festival was not only, well, worth the hubbub, but also, in the case of Inglourious Basterds and Antichrist, released on these very shores in the same year. (Thank you IFC and the Weinsteins.) Love 'em or hate 'em, it turns out Lars von Trier and Quentin Tarantino have more than just bloated egos in their bag of tricks. The arthouse bad boy revolution certainly made waves in 2009, but I'm glad to say that a handful of female filmmakers made their own waves almost regardless of controversy, or lack there of. None of these women stood up to a microphone and said, "I am the best film director in the world," but instead allowed their craft speak for itself. Kathryn Bigelow (The Hurt Locker), Agnes Varda (The Beaches of Agnes) and Claire Denis (35 Shots of Rum) are not only linked by their gender, but also by turning in three of the best films of the year. The rest of the films that rocked my 2009 were the ones found in the nooks and crannies of film distribution. Often unheralded, misunderstood and underappreciated, these are the films that I live for and thankfully found their way to me despite the circumstances of time, place and wacked sense of film appreciation at large. Minneapolis is the center of my world and, with the exception of one in NYC, here is a bakers dozen of top films, alphabetically, that I found in my fair city in one form or another:

24 City directed by Jia Zhangke
January 31, Walker Art Center

Thanks to the Walker's "Expanding the Frame," 24 City had a one night stand here almost a year ago. Jia Zhangke, master from the Mainland, has always walked a fine line between fact and fiction. From the gritty realism of Xiao Wu (1997) to the fictional/non-fictional companion pieces Still Life and Dong (both 2006), Jia has been turning social observation and commentary into poetic parables about his shape-shifting home country for over ten years. 24 City profiles the soon to be shuttered Factory No. 420 in Chengdu, China. A former munitions factory and stalwart representation of Communist China, the massive Factory No. 420 is to be razed to make room for a new luxury housing development. The opening sequence of manufacturing in action would make any four-year-plan proud. But those days are over and the modernization of the 21st century is nothing like the modernization of the Great Leap Forward. Adaptability is the new slogan and, amid the backdrop of the doomed factory, Jia chronicles people's ability to navigate the brave new world of 'capitalism with Chinese characteristics.' Fact and fiction blur as Jia cleverly plants actors among the subjects of the film. But are the actors really acting? In the case of Joan Chen, she plays a woman nicknamed "little flower" because she so closely resembled the lead character in a 1980 film Little Flower, who was in fact Joan Chen. Needless to say, the history of most of the professionals in the film is not so dissimilar to their common contemporaries. Beautifully scored by Lim Giong, 24 City is a bittersweet open-ended elegy and another star on the lapel of this fifth generation general.
(24 City comes out on DVD tomorrow. Wait no longer; check it out now.)

35 Shots of Rum directed by Claire Denis
October 20, Film Forum

This is the one film I had to travel for and although I didn't make the trip specifically to see Claire Denis new film, it was certainly a huge bonus. In some respects it felt like fate that had me landing in NYC on the last day that 35 Shots of Rum was playing. 35 Shots of Rum takes a step back from her abstract and highly allegorical The Intruder. Focusing on a father and his young adult daughter and their various attempts to foster and maintain relationships, it is a subdued family drama in the tradition of Ozu. The father, Lionel, works as a train operator and his daughter, Joséphine, is a student. It is apparently based on the relationship between Denis' mother and her grandfather, and the personal nature of the film shows. It has and air of honesty that feels intimate and unencumbered. Delicate and tender, 35 Shots of Rum broaches the subjects of love, race and politics with subtle humanity instead of the heavy-handed indoctrinations that films usually hand out. I had recently read an essay by Claire Denis on Hong Sang-soo, and as a result I found myself thinking about Hong's films, not Ozu's, especially during the centerpiece in a bar. There is a distillation of the film in that sequence that is very Hong-like—an awkward yet honest summation of the heart. There is another standout scene, where Lionel is at the controls of the train and he imagines himself and Joséphine riding on a horse together. It's a warm daydream that doesn't at all feel as abstract as it should. 35 Shots is an illusive film that begs for meaning without handing it out.
(35 Shots of Rum did not make an appearance in the Twin Cities in 2009, but it will likely show its face on the big screen somewhere around here in 2010. Do. Not. Miss. It.)

Antichrist directed by Lars von Trier
November 13, Lagoon Theater

From my perspective, all the cards were stacked against Antichrist. I had read and heard too many diatribes, aimed at von Trier but inadvertently hitting the film. I was doubtful and pessimistic about this film, but I was also extremely excited to see it and thrilled that its graphic moments didn't prevent it from getting a proper theatrical release. And, wow, what a stunning film it is. Visually and narratively loaded to the gills, Antichrist is not a movie to be taken lightly, but, then again, not to be taken too seriously either. Von Trier makes a self-reflexive analysis of his own cinematic tropes right before our very eyes. His cheeky pseudo-intellectual survey of gender politics feels like a wry, overblown critique of his very own films. Von Trier uses the violence in the film like a bully on a playground, daring you to watch. But buried underneath the noise of controversy is a fairytale of iconic proportions, culminating in a talking fox. Forget Tarkovsky, for whom the film is dedicated to, von Trier is channeling the Brothers Grimm.
(No street date for the DVD. I desperately want one of these t-shirts.)

Fig Trees directed by John Greyson
June 25, Walker Art Center

John Greyson has reinvented the documentary genre with Fig Tress. Much like Chris Marker, his approach is like free verse poetry. Mixing documentary footage with an operatic reinterpretation of the last twenty years of AIDS activism, Greyson does not hesitate to reference The Matrix and La Bohème in the same breath. At the heart of the surreal narrative thread is the real-life heroism of Tim McCaskell and Zackie Achmat, two life long AIDS activists who fought for equal access to information and treatment in their respective countries of Canada and South Africa. Extremely playful and cunningly clever, Fig Trees is as mind-bending as an epic palindrome and as beautiful as an operatic aria. Fig Trees was originally a video opera for gallery installation, but Greyson has beautifully extended his vision to a full-length film unlike anything I have seen before.
(Fig Trees has not received any theatrical distribution, of course, and who knows if it will ever make its way to DVD.)

Gomorrah directed by Matteo Garone
March 15, Uptown Theater

More than any other film in this list, Gomorrah was the one that totally took my breath away. Not because of the raw violence (which is definitely there) but the completely unconventional pacing and narrative drive. With little or no context, the characters in this film negotiate a world of underground crime that is as foreign as the film structure. Unlike the character driven mafia of the Corleones, Gomorrah is rulled by money and money alone. The film plays out like a multinational nightmare where individuals do not matter, only the capital they move and the channels they create. Director Matteo Garone not so much adapts Roberto Saviano's book as he does imbue the film with the aura given off by its pages. Personalities are exhibited in place of individuals and situations in place of stories. The result is unsettling and powerful. (And I must admit, fantastic on the Uptown's huge screen.) I only read the book only after seeing the film, but I devoured it, amazed by what Garone had done to the overwhelming material.
(Criterion released Gomorrah on DVD and Blu-Ray in November.)

The Headless Woman directed by Lucrecia Martel
December 20, DVD

Failing to make an appearance in the Twin Cities, DVD was my only option for The Headless Woman. Released on December 15, I was glad to squeeze this one in before the end of the year, but I will forever be bitter about not being able to see it on the big screen. Martel's La Ciénaga is one of the best films of the decade (yes, eventually I will be going down that road) and my adoration has yet to be dashed with 2004's The Holy Girl and this year's The Headless Woman. Within the cacophonous first few minutes of the film, Verónica, a matronly platinum blond, hits something while driving home. She/we see a dog; she thinks she has hit a person; she gets amnesia. Coincidence? That is for the film to decide, and the audience to decipher. A study on class and entitlement, The Headless Woman is a puzzle that offers absolutely no dramatic irony, making the audience work for answers. Verónica spends much of the film searching for her identity alongside us, wandering aimlessly wherever people take her. The surprise is how well she functions without it and how she is never really in a situation where she needs to make an informed decision. The result is guilt by complacency. By eschewing convention, Martel's elegant and enigmatic creation is a stark reminder of just how much we rely on it.
(The Headless Woman came out on DVD last month from Strand.)

Hunger directed by Steve McQueen
March 27, Walker Art Center

Hunger was another late arrival in the Twin Cities, and although much ink was spilled last year in praise of Hunger, on the eve of its February 16 Criterion DVD and Blu-Ray release, it is worth restating how amazing this film is. Steve McQueen's debut film about the Irish nationalist Bobby Sands who died during a hunger strike is raw and brutal. Amongst the shit, urine and blood, McQueen offers a film of startling visual beauty that is unsettling, to say the least. Taking place almost entirely within the walls of a prison, Hunger first introduces the situation, then Sands' moral quandary and finally his wasting away. Michael Fassbender's performance as Sands is captivating, and his talent only becomes more apparent the more we see of him (Inglourious Basterds, Fish Tank.) Comparisons to The Passion of the Christ and allusions to Abu Ghraib are warranted, but Hunger stands on its own as a powerful piece of art.
(Hunger comes out on DVD and Blu-Ray next month from the good people at Criterion.)

The Hurt Locker directed by Kathyrn Bigelow
July 19, Uptown Theater

As the films on and about the Iraq War start to pile up, it would be easy to claim that Hollywood is merely performing an obligatory emotional purge for the masses. But the truth seems to be quite the opposite. The past few years have given us some of the most thoughtful and bitter ruminations about the war from directors and writers who are anything but passive onlookers. Top of the fictional heap is The Hurt Locker. The acute psychological spiral that soldiers are trapped in is felt within every potential exploding IED. Without the muddy notions of ideology or politics, The Hurt Locker openly studies a soldier who thrives on the danger of war. Sergeant First Class William James (played by the award-worthy Jeremy Renner) is a bomb expert who leads a team sent out to find, defuse, dismantle or safely detonate the enemies weapon of choice. James is addicted to war and, unlike his comrades in arms, loves the challenge staring death in the face. The close-up intensity of the soldiers' dripping sweat and shaking hands is countered by the equally unnerving wide-shot aerials that visually depicts their vulnerability. The opening sequence is a stunner, establishing not only the erraticism of war but also pulse-driving skill with which this film is made.
(The Hurt Locker comes out on DVD tomorrow, and, depending on how it fairs with nominations, may have a second run in theaters.)

The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus directed by Terry Gilliam
December 11, Lagoon Theater

James Cameron can keep his RealD™; Gilliam can (and has) done more visually with scissors and paper than Cameron could ever dream of. I love The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus for all its chaotic creative impulses that gleefully swell out of control for 122 minutes. Christopher Plummer plays Doctor Parnassus, a washed-up sage traveling the modern world in his medieval side-show wagon with his daughter and young assistant. Parnassus puts more effort into his bottle of booze than he does his show, but when the devil shows up in the form of Tom Waits with a challenge, it is game on. Of course Heath Ledger is in the mix (with his troupe of alter egos: Jude Law, Johnny Depp and Colin Farrell) but his character is something of a side show to the side show. Plummer, Waits and Gilliam are the stars that serve up a provocative madcap fantasy. Does it make sense? No. Is it fun? Hell yes.
(The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus opened this weekend in the Twin Cities; I caught an early press screening last month.)

Inglourious Basterds directed by Quentin Tarantino
August 21, AMC Roseville

At the end of Quentin Tarantino's piece de resistance, Lt. Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt) looks straight into the camera and says, "You know somethin', Utivich? I think this might just be my masterpiece." He is of course talking about the swastika he has just carved into Col. Hans Landa's, the Jew hunter's, forehead, but the screen may as well be a mirror and Raine may as well be Tarantino. Inglourious Basterds may very well be Tarantino's masterpiece, but anyone who can pull off such a grand production with such poise, deft and clever ingenuity surely has more talent to spare. The bar is set incredibly high with the first chapter, "Once upon a time...in Nazi-Occupied France." A battle of wills between a French farmer and a German officer is perfectly scripted and paced. Denis Menochet's half moon eyes transform from those of defiance to despair as the sequence breaks into a full-blown Wagner-like eruption. Inglourious Basterds is full of moments that are damn near brilliant in their detail: the sickening sound of Christoph Waltz's teeth on his fork as he enjoys strudel; Brad Pitt's perfectly cadenced drawl; the absurd characterizations of Hitler, Goebbels and Churchill. Although the film loses some of its power when Tarentino goes overboard with Mélanie Laurent's music video in the fifth act, it does nothing to reduce the awe-inspiring catharsis of bullet riddled Nazi's. Cinema as it should be: grand, smart and incredibly entertaining.
(Now out on DVD and Blu-Ray and enjoying a second run at some theaters.)

Munyurangabo directed by Lee Isaac Chung

April 18, St. Anthony Main

Munyurangabo is one of two films in this list that I saw at the Minneapolis St Paul International Film Festival. Lee Isaac Chung's ambitious collaboration with fifteen Rwandan students on a 11-day shoot may be one of the most impressive and brave debut features ever made. Tackling the impossible, Chung and his team of non-professionals make a powerful reflection on the genocide that tore the country apart more than 15 years ago. Munyurangabo gains strength through silent intensity and honest emotions as it contemplates the the country's collective history and its inevitable effects on individuals. The film chronicles a journey made by two friends (one a Hutu and one a Tutsi) on the verge of adulthood who both seek resolution to a personal restlessness. Chung spends over an hour building up tension until the film lets loose in the form of a cathartic 7-minute poem that is the anthem for the film and a country caught between its desire for revenge and need for forgiveness.
(Munyurangabo is available on DVD from Film Movement.)

Oblivion directed by Heddy Honigmann

April 26, St Anthony Main

The second film from MSPIFF, Oblivion is a complete gem that no one is going to see. Documentary filmmaker Heddy Honigmann turns her camera on her hometown of Lima, Peru. Allowing the people to speak for themselves, Oblivion is a sublime summation of life within a very specific place and time from those who live and work around the Presidential Palace in Lima. The film opens with the monologue of a charismatic bartender. While fixing the national drink of Peru, the Pico Sour, he humorously contemplates the recent presidential elections, equating the choice between the two candidate to having to choose between Hepatitis B and AIDS. "The people chose Hepatitis B!" he laughs. Oblivion did the same thing for Peru as The Big Durian did for Malaysia: put a very gentle human face on the entire country despite imperfections. Each interview, testimonial and observation offer another layer to a mosaic I previously knew nothing about. Honigmann has an instinct for making the camera (and the presence of the filmmaker) eloquently disappear. She is like the antithesis of Michael Moore: whereas Moore takes a topic and dresses it up in loud, scary clothing, Honigmann does the same and dresses it down into something relaxed and natural. Although she had modest festival success with, Forever, her beautiful Paris-set documentary about the immortality of art, Honigmann still works far below the popular radar.
(As far as I know, Oblivion has no distribution in this country. Talk to your local film festival programmer.)

Honorable Mentions: Nanayomachi (Naomi Kawase), Il Divo (Pailo Sorrentino), Tokyo Sonata (Kiyoshi Kurosawa), Beaches of Agnes (Agnes Varda), Summer Hours (Oliver Assayas), Revanche (Gotz Spielmann), Rembrandt's J'accuse (Peter Greenaway), Still Walking (Hirokazu Kore-eda), Tony Manero (Pablo Larrain).

Update: Added some linky-dinkies, most with access to trailers.

Jason Reitman's UP IN THE AIR

(Another review to bide me some time. This time a lauded best-of-the-year film that I hardly think exels to those heights. Originally published on In Review Online. Best of 2009: Film on Monday.)

Jason Reitman’s Up in the Air feels like a sales pitch, and to credit of the film’s manipulative powers, we actually start to believe that a layoff can be a new beginning. Unfairly arming himself with the charms of George Clooney and Vera Farmiga, Reitman’s take on the 21st century American Dream is as slick as it is distasteful, and he expects us not only to embrace it but also to buy it. Clooney plays Ryan Bingham, a mover and a shaker who gleefully spends 322 days a year flying around the country firing people. His only obligations are to his job and occasional libido flare-up, and his strongest emotional ties are those to his travel reward cards. As if his lifestyle is something to strive for, Bingham also tours the motivational speaking circuit preaching corporate jargon with a cheeky seminar titled “What’s in your backpack?” But Ryan’s modus operandi is about to be put to the test: a newly hired efficiency expert (Anna Kendrick) threatens to pull him out of the sky; a beautiful and exciting woman (Farmiga) starts tugging on his heart strings; and an obligatory family wedding opens the door to sentimentality.

Thanks to Clooney, Ryan is perhaps one of the most likeable jerks you are likely to find in film this year, and Farmiga, as the equally crass Alex, is an ideal sparring partner. The two embellish their business travel routine with an on-going, no-strings-attached affair that is almost as enjoyable for us as it seems to be for them. The introduction of Kendrick, as the young college grad Natalie, jeopardizes Clooney and Farmiga’s good work. Natalie has been hired to cut costs and ironically downsize the downsizing firm. Unwilling to be grounded in Omaha year around, Ryan offers to show Natalie the art of firing and the value of his face-to-face ‘personal touch.’ The buddy narrative that evolves between the two of them is overwrought by Natalie’s incredulous over-confident yet wet behind the ears characterization. Natalie’s naiveté is balanced by Alex’s maturity, with the adolescent self-centered Ryan stuck in the middle. In the end, it is Jason Bateman who strikes the perfect pose. With his quaffed beard and midwestern sense of flamboyant style, he embodies the sleazy persona that Clooney only mimics.

There are several sequences in Up in the Air when Bingham’s downsizing victims speak directly into the camera in successive rapid-fire responses to being let go. What might usually sound like canned hyperbole (“How do you sleep at night?” “After 25 years, this is what I get?” “What am I suppose to tell my family?”) is much more acute because the bitterness is real. The handful of characters in these roles are not characters at all, they are people who have truly lost their jobs otherwise known as layoff survivors. Post financial collapse, Reitman and crew thought it might be callous to make a rom-com romp about people getting laid off. They set out to do some research, placing a fake ad about a documentary, to solicit some authenticity to the glossed up character driven drivel. It works and it doesn’t. The gravity of the on-screen venting is potent—especially since most of us know someone who has found themselves in a similar situation in the past year—but juxtaposing it with Clooney’s allure and Kendrick’s overacting only cheapens the con.

Doing his best to climb out of the Diablo Cody slums, Reitman’s swindle is a success. With three feature films under his belt, this one certainly seems to be the charm. I for one, however, cannot accept his cynicism with any sort of conscience, no matter how suave, convincing or entertaining (and make no mistake, Up in the Air is all three of those things.) Regardless of how you read the ending, Ryan Bingham’s blank stare at the airport departure table acknowledges his realization that the trench he has dug for himself may just be too deep for him to escape. After years of emptying his proverbial backpack, he has nothing but the artificial love of the travel industry and a stack of pink slips. Satire is displaced for sympathy, and Bingham is our modern American hero. George Clooney delivers the most enjoyable layoff you will likely ever experience, but only if you are willing to accept his unsavory personal and professional detachment from human compassion.