Rachel Getting Married

We don’t spend much time with the woman in the title, which is a shame because she is by far the most interesting character in the film.  With a mess of a sister, a passive father, a mother who barely gives a damn, and a host of family tragedies, a woman who still pursues hope of the future is a rare and fascinating thing.

Instead we focus on Kym and the much lauded performance by Anne Hathaway.  Like all of Hathaway’s performances, this resembled more an android struggling to play a human playing a character than anything else.  Kym is a recovering drug addict (nine months sober) with a past marked not with life events but a state of constant crisis.  At one point Rachel (Rosemarie DeWitt) alludes to Kym once being on the cover of Seventeen Magazine, but this is the only detail that briefly makes her anything more than “general fuck-up.”  The story of an addict returning home in the midst of her sister’s wedding festivities, coping with sober living, life on the outside, family dramatics, and all eyes pointed elsewhere, could certainly make for good viewing.  The trouble is that all these elements seem to be oddly lacking in weight.  Win or lose, everyone is primarily fixated with treading water, or more appropriately spinning and stewing in their own foul mess.  Kym, being the prodigal daughter, is the spearhead of this sickness.  I presume at least in places that the viewer is expected to develop sympathy for this poor, broken creature struggling to stay afloat.  Instead, every time she came on screen I found myself in a state of irritation that distracted me from all else.  Her selfishness may well reflect the behavior of some people in real-life, but not anyone I want to spend   two hours with.

In my opinion, a far more compelling film would have focused on Rachel and the detailed preparations of her delightfully eccentric wedding ceremony and reception.  Keep Hathaway if you must, but she would serve better downgraded to a secondary character, or lower.  Unfortunately, “indie” film culture treats functional characters more as something to be mocked than admired.  It’s so boring and uncool to have hope and promise in ones life.  Far better to exist in a darkly comic state of self disgust.  

But the pitiful evils of so-called “independent film” can be dealt with another day.

Special

“I’d realize that I could fly.  No, that’s not quite right.  I’d realize that there was no reason I couldn’t fly.”

The following doesn’t serve greatly as a synopsis.  The events and sentiments of the film truly need to be seen to be believed.  The premise alone is fascinating: man has adverse reaction to drug trial – man believes he has super powers – chaos ensues.  Later finding out what the drug was intended for makes the whole conflict even more intriguing.  This starting concept is well aided (which is not so commonly the case) by the visual technique.  The filmmaking serves to communicate the character, not to overwhelm the viewer with flashy nonsense.  The few special effects that are used serve to put a bend on the mind, causing you to wonder even after all the “facts” have been presented which version of reality is the accurate one.

But these are nuts and bolts items and not the gut of the film.  This is about what the mind can do — his mind, yours, the druggist, the businessman, the filmmaker — and the realms of possibility we thrive in.  All we do is based on concepts of possibility: our jobs, our hobbies, our loves.  Whether reading comic books or watching films, these are models for living as much as a model of.  Which then takes us to the concepts of joy and madness.  Which proceeds the other? which is worth sacrificing, worth tolerating? which do we strive for in our wildest notions and, knowing what’s out there, what prevents us from donning that white jumpsuit or printing our own business cards or talking to the lady we most admire?

There’s a phrase used far too often, “Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.”  In many cases, we can choose to exist in the world we want instead of the world we have.  It’s not necessarily a matter of loosing oneself in a deranged wasteland, though the full hearted pursuit of passion may seem uncompromisingly delusion to someone on the outside.  It is a matter of throwing the whole self into something that may not always be easily understood by others.  To know the possibility, the honest desire of heart and mind, must surely be the road map to victory, no matter how bumpy.  And with the spirit in motion, surely the body must follow.

Nothing is easy on the path of earnestness and conviction.  But when the nay-sayers come around, you can remember Les’ great words to the angry suit :

“Your forcefield is good, but my teleporting is better.” 

A Woman Under the Influence

“I don’t care if you’re a lunatic,” Peter Falk tells his wife as she winds down raving t the other end of a dirty dinner table.  Despite the plethora of slapping and shouting to follow, that statement is the truth of the relationship, the center of this film.  

The DVD envelope summary said something about Cassavetes’ destruction of “aboutness”.  I’m still not quite sure what that means, let alone whether I’ve been robbed of it.  What I did get was the disaster of daily love, and the reluctant triumph possible come evening.  The influence that Mabel (Gena Rowlands) is under is madness, that’s evident from the start but it’s hardly the point of the action.  The treatment of her condition is where the real focus should be placed.  There are times when she loses touch completely, has no concept of the likely results of her actions, and though she means no harm, heaps it on to those around her who are victim to their own suspicions and societal restraints.  At the center of this with her is Nick (Falk) who, understandably, can’t decide where to put his loyalties and in what way.  With every action he has to consider himself, his wife, his mother, his children, along with the random heads that pop their way through the door.  Though the violence wouldn’t necessarily be called justified, it certainly is understandable — especially during Mabel’s biggest breakdown when his mother is shouting at him and her, spinning her finger around her ear.  It’s a scary thing to see a man slug his mother, but in this case I could allow a little cheer.  

So many decisions that Nick makes are of questionable quality.  Should he lock his wife up or let her roam?  Should she leave the kids with her or shuffle them away?  Then there’s the hitting, the shouting, breaking household goods, inviting strangers in, kicking family out.  Every scene with him is abuzz with frustration that makes the viewer’s skin crawl with the wonder of what they would do in his place.  And wondering that is dangerous because it doesn’t take long to realize the violence isn’t far off in a situation like that, no matter who you are and what you presume you’re incapable of.  What makes all this anxiety and doubt worthwhile is that the love never really goes away.  Nick loves Mabel, she loves him, and each finds a safety in the other that they can’t get elsewhere.  The most disturbing scene, in my mind, is at the dinner table when Mabel repeatedly asks her father to stand up but is unable to express that she wants him to do more than follow a simple action.  The scene further pushes the notion that we all have a limit on those who will understand and care for us.  A parent, a god, or a frightened man slumped over a chair, juggling a dangerous job and growing children.  He seems to be the only one willing to take care of her and to take her as she is, even if this is often done in a very sloppy way.  Everything is a struggle, but it is made worthwhile for the moments of clarity, for the times when they can simply tidy up the kitchen and talk about people who’ve come and gone.

Dear Zachary

I wept.  I can’t remember the last time I could say that about a film.  

There was so much in a project with such a simple premise.  Filmmaker Kurt Kuenne wants to create a memorial for his best friend, Andrew Bagby, after his death.  He crosses the country and an ocean to gather information from friends and family, creating a portrait of a man who touched so many.  This simple idea, however, transformed into a letter (hence the title) to Andrew’s son, unborn at the time of his death.

It’s the stages of meaning that the film goes through that makes it so moving, makes it resonate so deeply in the viewer.  First there is the issue of what we leave behind, the pondering of what would happen, what the reaction would be, if you kicked off tomorrow.  What sort of ripple effect would go through your neighborhood, city, state, and beyond?  And is it even possible to know the full effect you have on this planet before you’re gone?  This then leads to an assessment of how you would react to the loss of those around you.  What would you say if someone showed up at your door, asking questions about your best friend, or your lab partner through high school, or a former roommate?  We all have a footprint, that’s undeniable, but to see that print so masterfully presented, put together on a scale that would normally be reserved for those common to the general populace, gives the feeling that every life is much more massive than we give credit for.  We each become epic in the emotions we incite in others.

Beyond the foundation theme of the film there is a murder mystery and a call to action.  Well, not much of a mystery.  It is quite evident from the beginning, even in the film’s trailer, who Andrew’s killer is.  The mystery here really is what will come next, how the family will continue to operate, how they will get through each new bizarre development.  Each event leads to a degree of outrage regarding the way this case, and presumably many others, are handled.  Canada is often lauded to have great health care, but their justice system seems terrifying.  It made me wonder how out of the loop I was with my nation’s process of justice, whether something like this could potentially happen to someone I love, or to me in some variation.  

The final message here is one of passion, resilience, and determination.  Each person interviewed has their own way of fighting on through loss.  Andrew’s parents pack up their lives and relocate to be near their grandchild and to work toward justice for their son.  Kurt travels far and wide, amassing a cooler full of tapes, sifting through what must have been mountains of footage not just relating to post-death memories, but also footage of Andrew through his life.  And every person interviewed, whether they had known Andrew his whole life or only a few months or years, expressed a sincere interest to help his child, to meet him, to talk to him about the man he would never get to meet.  The grief is strong, but the desire to go forward and make good by a fallen man’s name is stronger.  

I’m not sure what specific element of the film led to my tears.  Maybe I wasn’t expecting anything so complex or something that would hit me on so many levels.  Yesterday, in one of the rooms of the National Gallery I saw a quote by Horace Mann, “Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory of humanity.”  It’s a low tech feature, but it packs quite a wallop, and by the finish you’ll want to leap up and get something done, whatever can be done, to make things better for whomever you can.

National Portrait Gallery

If you’re anywhere near the D.C. area, I whole hearted recommend stopping by the National Portrait Gallery to see, the exhibition Portraiture Now: Feature Photography.  The massive building houses plenty corridors of interest, even the presidential portraits didn’t prove as boring as expected.  However, this exhibit was particularly inspiring to me, as I have recently decided to pursue more fervently a long-held passion for photography.  The things that these artists are able to do, the intimacy with the human form, the human face especially, are staggering.  Crawling through the space I was torn between the desire to stay wandering amongst the images until they kicked me out and the desire to capture every part of every face I came across.  If the point of art is to get you revved up (and personally, I believe it is) than this most certainly succeeds.  Here are a few snippets I stole off the walls:

“We create the face with which we live.” — Steve Pyke

“Morissey has a way of saying exactly what I need to hear.” — Ryan McGinly

“Photography is a kind of permission — it’s a way in.  It’s a catalyst for extraordinary experiences that would otherwise not be possible.” — Katy Grannan

“If a photograph documents anything, it is the space between the subject and myself.” — Alec Soth

“I photograph because I am interested in people, what it means to be alive, and how we make sense of the world.” — Jocelyn Lee

And if you do wind up out that way, keep a look out for the charming typo in one of the bios.  Gold star if you can tell me which one.

Head

The movie wasn’t even half over when I was split between a desire to know more about this film, and the desire to set it aflame and never have to tangle with it again.  Maybe the later is a tad extreme, but it certainly is true, even a few days later.  This is another movie mentioned in Easy Riders, Raging Bulls, a feature co-written/produced by Jack Nicholson and directed by New Wave “great” Bob Rafelson.  Rafelson was also involved with the Monkees television show which I find radically out of step with this film, and so too did the public at the time, if I recall correctly.  The Monkees were a happy, sweet little quad, manufactured to feed off of the success of the Beatles’ antics in A Hard Days Night.  A noble effort, I think, because despite the arguably phoney aspect of the Monkees they really are a sweet bunch of guys.  Maybe I didn’t watch enough episodes when I was a kid.

The start of the movie is intended, as far as I can grasp, to parody the idea of the Monkees, the concept of this manufactured entity parading as a musical group.  What follows is more of the same, though considerably less clever than the opening “song.”  There is no coherent plot, just a mountain of scenes depicting the group members in various activities, relating to imaginary adventures, film sets, and awkward altercations.  The central theme is the concept of what reality is, and the ability of our minds (or heads) to construct a reality through the power of personal imagination.  Whether this is for better or worse is unclear.  This argument of reality relates to the group both in their existance as casted musicians and as members of the media profession.    This creates a rather important problem, in that to take this film seriously you have to take the Monkees seriously, which it would seem by the finish is something they don’t necessarily desire you to do.  If you want to have an example of manufactured bands you have the Spice Girls or N’Sync or the Backstreet Boys.   But the Monkees was a television show that crossed over to the radio, a backward movement of their original inspiration.

I could be out of the loop, not having been in existence when the show originally aired and being only vaguely aware of it now, but I honestly wonder if there were people who honestly though a band got together and wanted to be on TV, not the other way around.  Considering the jokes in this movie, the idea seems unlikely.  So: take them seriously, or not?  That’s the continuous tangle.  If I take them seriously, then they are a group of young men who were thrown together by a casting call.  This venture didn’t result in what they ultimately desired, so they make a film that makes fun of their existence, which is more than a little counterproductive.  I would think that if you wanted to legitimize yourself, you would do something legitimate, not something that thrives over your previously acknowledged lack of legitimacy.

And if you don’t take them seriously?  The movie was just a group of young men doing goofy nonsense, but not in the wacky vein of the show  but one pulsating with anger and frustrating that can’t be taken seriously, per the previous judgment.

Either way, what comes about is a lot of nonsense, with no direction and no purpose.  It awoke nothing in me, and didn’t feel like it took a particular bit of doing to create.  It felt, in a word, lazy.  They could have done something profound with their time and resources, instead they opted, as so many have and continue to, for manufactured insanity designed to comment on previous manufactured insanity.  This is nothing new, nothing necessary, and nothing earth shattering, it’s just a lot of rusted junk.

The Invention of Hugo Cabret

Though it is technically classified a “children’s book”, it is also majestic enough warrant happiness at finishing a book for the first time in far too long.  This book was recommended to me by a friend of mine who is a children’s librarian, remembering it because it recently won some notable prizes and nominations.

The book is set up with words interspersed with several pages of illustration, perhaps so far as being more picture than phrase.  The images are used to show things that words are not necessarily needed for: traveling through a tunnel, dissecting clockwork, stumbling through streets, and such.  Thus, the writing comes to be like title cards from old silent movies, though a tad longer and more engrossing.  This is a highly fitting style for a book about the rediscovery of cinema’s great forefather, Georges Melies.

I was slightly wary at the idea of a book about a little boy who, in effect, resurrects the legend, but by the end I was greatly heartened.  The process was done with tribute, but absent of sap, ending with a beautiful sentiment for classic cinema and a nod to the hope of possibility for the future.  It took about a day to read, interspersed between the masses of work I was supposed to be engaged in, and was a charm at every turn.  By the end I was not only sad it was over, but suddenly wrapped in a longing to feel the same way I felt as the story unfolded.  I can only imagine what this book must be like for a young child, one not at all familiar with the work of Melies or the way he impacted the world.  It’s a story that does not require previous knowledge of the man, unless you want to learn the “secret” before the characters do.  If you don’t know about him, it serves to create an interest and a desire to seek him out afterward.  And if you have crossed eyes with him before, this is a lovely way to reconnect, to remember the wonder of his films, and, as with the newcomers, seek out his work for renewal.

A beautiful work by a man I want to know more about.  Well shaped characters, moving action, and a passionate affection for a great figure in our human history.

Kung Fu Panda

I don’t really have anything sensible to say about this one.  It was a sweet film that truly made my day, though the vodka slushis my friend and I snuck in didn’t hurt.  The best thing about the movie, aside from the hilarity of seeing a big fluffy panda in little shorts, is that it is a return to simply, classic storytelling.  Shrek was nice (the first time) but too many cartoons spend too much of their time trying to wink at the adults that have to bring their kids to these movies instead of creating characters that the intended viewer can honestly love.  In the long run, this is more important because, provided said character is not freakishly annoying (as in, has a high pitched voice as his only form of hilarity) seeing a character make the child at bliss is all the adult needs to justify coming along to this color splashed action.  The Panda may not be as glorious as the Disney days of yore, but it certainly is a step that way.

THX: 1138

Being severely low on funds, the majority of my film viewing has revolved around the American New Wave in the 1970s (frankly, I think we’re far due for another one), jumping off of the viewing list from a book I’m crawling through, Easy Riders, Raging Bulls. This film, George Lucas’ first feature, based on a shorter film he made for school, nearly bankrupted American Zoetrope and so nearly ended his career before it began. I was not eager at all to watch.

I ended up liking the story presented here far more than I expected. The delivery, however, was no mark of greatness. In the film’s commentary, Lucas says that the foreign feel of the film was exactly what he was striving for. He wanted to “make a film from the future, not about the future” which is a noble aim. The trouble is, to me, that this this and other aspects of the film are supposedly intended but not communicated, which makes me doubt the effectiveness of the method. While I do believe that the filmmaker owes only to himself, not an audience, the film medium is intended for communication. Otherwise, why not just shoot a movie and watch it in your basement. Godard often said that the mark of quality in a film is in the inability of an audience to comprehend it, something that I find monumentally foolish. If you release it, you obviously want others to see it. And, in releasing, if your only intention is to make others feel idiotic because they don’t get something you never intended them to get, than what’s the point? It is my opinion that we produce work as a form of giving to others, a concept or an idea or an emotion. You don’t have to spoon feed it to the audience, but it needs to be out there.

My apologies, got a tad side tracked.

I would venture that Lucas wanted to communicate his ideas to the audience, not be stingy about them, but was perhaps too young a filmmaker to know how to put them forward most affectively. Or, perhaps his style at that point is something that simply doesn’t stimulate me. My distaste is mainly in the fact that the two things I was most interested in, in the plot and world he created, were not played up as much as they could have been. First, there was an excellent criticism of both extremes of the political spectrum. In this underground world that THX inhabits, there is both the harsh conformity and invasiveness that characterizes far conservative regimes, especially now, but there are also references to China’s re-education, therefore serving to blur the lines of communism and fascism. Supplementing this, is the vast consumerism of the Nixon and approaching Reagan administrations, as well as the heavy drug use of the 1970s. Though the drugs in this case were not for recreation but by government mandate, a case can still be made for the criticism of people who use drugs as a wall between a true and manufactured reality. Though these elements are obviously present, and the backbone for the story, they are also in an odd way shoved to the side. I wanted to see more drugs, more consumerism, and instead they were mentioned frequently by detached voice overs and only seen once or twice. This is mildly comical coming from someone who at the time put not value on dialog and all on image.

Second, I wanted to see more in regards to the love story that spurred on the action of the film, between THX and LUH. This, I understand, is a complex issue as love stories are often want to be consumed in sap and this film was attempting to be as detached and cold as possible. Still, it’s something I want explored a little more. The entire point of the love affair was to raise these citizens out of their stupor and experience emotion as they never have before, yet we don’t get to see much of them doing so. The only way we know they aren’t on drugs is because they’re able to have sex, which can easily be done apathetic and doped up.

Though interesting, this would certainly not be a film I’d want to sit through a second time, or recommend to others. If it were another filmmaker, I would say it was a noble first effort on the road to greater things. Considering this is George Lucas though, I’d probably have to pin this as a sprawling, pretentious bit of nonsense made by a man not yet ready to sell out to something he’s better equipped for.

How to Spot a Film Snob (remix)

Recently a friend of mine told me that the last movie he saw was The Maltese Falcon.  I’m not sure if he asked me how I felt about it, or if it was just a knee-jerk response, but I know I told him I didn’t care for that movie much.  Then he told me that that was because I was a film snob and I had to remind myself that he was too drunk to argue with.  “Film Snob” is one insult that makes me cringe above all others, mainly because it is a totally misguided accusation.  Trying to dissuade people from this accusation is nearly impossible, but I thought it may still be beneficial to repost an article I wrote for another blog.  One day I’d like to take another shot at an identification guide.  But right now I have limited time and a half dozen other films to mull about, so a repeat will have to do.

Generally, people presume that because I love film and study film that I must be a film snob. If you pay attention, as in actually speak to me, you can quickly find that this is just not true. But perhaps you just don’t know the signs.

Last year I bought The Film Snob’s Dictionary and every know and then I pull it out and flip through it, counting all the items I’ve never heard of as points in my favour. The book tries to give an introduction on what a snob really is, I’m working on a more comprehensive list. Hopes are that making traits more defined, my name will be cleared and you can spot your own snob tendencies needing possible adjustment.

1. The gauled response to unviewed films.
Ever heard someone talk about a movie and then you say you haven’t seen it and they get all outraged and say “What?! How could you not have seen that movie?” or some variation of? This is the primary snob statement. American cinema has been in operation since the apparatus was invented by Dickinson (stolen by Edison) around 1895. I don’t have an estimate of how many films have been made per year since then, even dealing simply with the U.S. and ignoring the rest of the world. If you’ve seen everything, you are a fictional human being.

2. Degredation of tastes.
This point is an extension of item 1. Somehow, the snob has created an interior list of what movies are worth seeing and what ones are not. Most likely they copied it from some published snob’s list, or they’ve read The Film Snob’s Dictionary too seriously. I believe that life is too short to spend time watching things that make you miserable, especially when there is so much to choose from. If I had the money I would go to the theater and see every movie playing, even the ones that I presume will be crappy, just so I can form my own opinion on them. Unfortunately, I have to pick and choose, and selections are generally based on what I believe I will enjoy or what has been recommended by someone I trust (off hand, I can think of two people, and my trust in them is extremely limited). However, I can think of very few films that I feel obligated to see. While it is good to discuss and investigate diverging opinions, the only one who knows what an individual likes and respects is the individual, not the resident snob. If you love movies, give as many things a chance as you can. And please, leave the guy alone who still enjoys Homeward Bound.

3. The terminology argument.
There are quite a few words that can be used in reference to a motion picture. Cinema, film, movie, kino…and at some point in time (I truly don’t know when) it became necessary for some folks to make distinction about specific divisions of these words. The most common distinction ariese between the words “film” and “movie” with people saying the former refers to something unpleasant to watch, probably subtitled, boring, hard to understand, and similar traits that make an “art-house film”; the later then is the slop, the blockbusters, the things that the vast public (those callous bastards) greatly and mindlessly enjoy.
Kids, I hate to break this to you, but all the words mean the same damn thing. They’re synonyms, borrowed from various languages, and assigned various meanings by folks that want to feed the horrendous myth that if you don’t understand something than it’s on a higher plane than you are and you are supposed to revere it. Sometimes, if you don’t understand something, it is being poorly communicated and therefore can be classified by you without shame as crap. Fear not! art should evoke feeling but that feeling does not have to be pain.
I’ve decided to start using the word “kino.” As far as I’m aware, no one’s using that phrase at the moment so maybe I can introduce it as a kinder, gentler, umbrella word of safety.

*it was later pointed out that I forgot to include the word “flick”