Steady Diet of Film

Review: Presumed Guilty

Geoffrey Smith's and Roberto Hernandez's Presumed Guilty follows two Berkeley attorneys who take up the appeals case for José Antonio Zúñiga Rodriguez (nicknamed Tono), a young man who worked in a marketplace selling electronics before being convicted of murder based on faulty police work, contradicting testimony and zero physical evidence. The attorneys (director Hernández and his colleague Layda Negrete) obsessively videotaped all hearings and procedures in an attempt to showcase some of the problems with Mexico's judicial system.

By the time his appeal is heard, Tono has already spent over a year in an over-crowded, violent prison. In an effort to demonstrate that he is maintaining high spirits through a difficult time, Smith and Hernandez show him working on his (increasingly awesome) breakdancing skill. In this way, we understand that this time is far easier on him than it is for his family, who sneak him food rations and worry constantly about his fate as he faces the enormous odds of a legal system designed to prioritize conviction rates rather than increasing actual safety of its citizenry. 

Smith and Hernandez delight in showing the intricacy of Mexico's labyrinth of legal corruption. The judge assigned to Tono's appeal is the same one who originally heard the case (a trial that Tono was not allowed to attend). He refuses to allow any previous testimony to be re-examined, the arresting officer refuses to answer any questions, the key witness appears to be coached and we learn that Tono's original attorney is practicing law without a law degree. While the filmmakers try to make these scenes more edgy or incendiary with graphics and sound effects, it's clear that the bulk of Tono's problems stem from the entitlement of lazy civil servants and not a master conspiracy or a system where corrupt fortunes are being spent. This has the result of making the attorneys' passion seem somewhat leaden.

Smith's previous film, The English Surgeon, documents the noble humanitarian efforts of Dr. Henry Marsh, all the while showing him as a human being. A talented neurosurgeon, Marsh could spend his off hours vacationing in Ibiza or building a small fortune in an American practice. Instead, he dedicates an enormous amounts of time, money and energy to the hopelessly poverty-stricken segments of the Ukrainian population -- who would otherwise die horrible deaths in grossly outdated health care facilities. The film provides real world examples of both the import of his work and the enormity of the problems (such as the lack of systemic cohesion) he faces.

It's these additional layers of complexity that are frustratingly absent from Presumed Guilty. Instead we get recycled b-roll of a camera panning through a warehouse of paperwork to suggest that Tono's case is not a unique set of circumstances. And it's never acknowledged (or explained) that if not for the two Americans who took his case, he would have likely remained an anonymous file in a warehouse for decades. While it's easy to look at Mexico's legal statute of presumed guilt (which we learn in a post-script will be reversed in 2011) and feel superior, it's likely a pair of talented attorneys from Mexico City could find a similarly outrageous conviction committed on American or British soil. By condensing the explanation of a nation's faltering legal system down to one bad judge and one grumpy cop (with one man, stuck in the middle, breakdancing his way to spiritual enlightenment), Presumed Guilty devolves into little more than humanitarian pornography.

RIYL: Paradise Lost, Crude, The Take, Manda Bala. 

Presumed Guilty will screen at the San Francisco International Film Festival April 22nd - May 6th. And will air on PBS's POV July 27th, 2010.

Review: Marwencol

Marwencol, Jeff Malmberg's directorial debut and winner of the Grand Jury prizes at SXSW 2010 and the Cleveland International Film Festival, follows Mark Hogancamp, a recent head injury victim who has come to embody the definition of an outsider artist.

Marwencol whizzes through its necessary exposition. We get the broad strokes of how unbearable Hogancamp used to be. A self-loathing alcoholic (and luckily, a devoted journal keeper), a brutal attack by five teenagers wiped out his memories and left him with permanent brain damage. This resulted in a total disinterest in alcohol and a debilitating fear of the world around him. We also zip quickly through the harrowing process of re-learning every basic life function and the bureaucratic brutality of getting kicked off his benefits barely into his recovery.

Instead Malmberg quickly plunges us into the world of Marwencol, a small Belgian village circa World War II that Mark has created in his backyard using hand-built model houses and hand-painted Barbie dolls. Marwencol has an elaborate and complex story that includes all of the people from Mark's real life. His mother (depicted by a doll from the Barbie Bond Girl collection) tends bar, his real life co-workers are Allied military officers and his first (post-beating) crush all make up the fabric of the Marwencol mythology. People fall in love, start businesses and eventually band together to kill the the Nazi occupiers.

Marwencol began as a dexterity exercise and emotional safe haven as Mark coped with severe post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). It gave him a chaotic war zone he could shepherd into peace, while making his loved ones glamorous and powerful. It endeared him to members of the town who remembered Mark as an alcoholic and it's touching how supportive the community is of his homemade therapy. But when he began photographing his scenes and stories he quickly caught the attention of the New York art scene, who express no small amount of awe at his lack of irony. But this new recognition brings a fresh hell when Mark is invited to a gallery exhibition in loud and crowded Manhattan. And it will put a slow ache in the heart of any viewer to watch him struggle with first screwing up his courage to get to New York (thus the Nazi overthrow) and then his crippling anxiety around speaking to the people who attend his show.

Spending so much time in the Marwencol fantasy village has a dual effect. Mark relaxes in front of the camera, allowing him to talk about his motivations and the connections he's making between fantasy and real life in a way he might not have been able to if Malmberg had not dedicated several years to the filming process. The audience develops an intimacy with Mark, allowing viewers to better understand the way his emotions have twisted themselves as a means of protection from the memories and fears from his assault. An insight into the complexities of PTSD, this film is utterly necessary at this point in history yet doesn't end with overwhelming despair.

RIYL: The Living Museum, In the Realms of the Unreal, Unknown White Male.


Marwencol will screen at the San Francisco International Film Festival April 22 - May 6. It will also screen at Hot Docs April 29 - May 10.

#033 Sweet Crude w/ Sandy Cioffi and Tammi Sims

On this week's podcast I sit down with Sweet Crude director Sandy Cioffi and producer Tammi Sims to discuss their experiences film-making in the Niger Delta. While at first I was most intrigued with their harrowing story of being detained by military police and interrogated for 7 days, I was quickly taken with their dedication to the story they came to tell instead of reducing the struggle of the Nigerian people to a story about themselves. 

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Review: Transcending Lynch

In Transcending Lynch, Marcos Andrade follows filmmaker David Lynch (Blue Velvet, Mulholland Drive) on his "Catching the Big Fish: Meditation, Consciousness and Creativity" book tour through Brazil. Lynch soldiers through a tight schedule of college speaking tours, bookstore signings and even visits a reform school for teenage boys -- all to massive audiences with feverish clamour. He speaks about his experiences with Transcendental Meditation (TM), a practice taught by Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, who came to Hollywood in the 1950s and whose concepts of "dynamic peace" counts Lynch, members of the Beatles and Mia Farrow among its believers. 

Two things emerge from the film. First, the infectious enthusiasm that Brazil has for Lynch. It's difficult to listen to their effusive praise and not remember that sometimes when watching Lynch's films it feels like anything is possible. But at a Lynch Q&A in the States, you're far more likely to be treated to a mic hog talking about how smart they are than to hear someone gush that Lynch's films saved their life and that he is their hero.

The other, far less fortunate message of the film is how unimpressive Lynch's pitch for TM is. After 20+ years of practice, he's low on examples of the tangible differences its created in his life but high on platitudes and charming-but-empty metaphors about fishing, milkshakes and talking to pretty girls.

Andrade freely admits he comes to this subject as a devout believer in TM and an ardent fan of David Lynch. Transcending Lynch is a film with low ambition. Little more than a travelogue, it boasts eye-scalding admiration of its subject. One doesn't walk away with any new knowledge of Lynch or TM, but it's clear Andrade had a lot of fun shadowing his idol for a week. Andrade's techniques as a filmmaker have a parallel lack of purpose, adding Lynch-ian flourishes to low-tech film-making (a scene played backwards, classical music swollen to highlight the equal grandness and absurdity of a massive book signing, Donovan Leitch filmed backstage prior to a gig in menacing lowlight). 

It will be interesting to see how viewers react to Transcending Lynch in comparison to David Wants to Fly, which premieres later this month at Hot Docs in Toronto. David Wants to Fly, made by a film-maker with a less successful experience with something that seems similar to TM, is a great deal more critical of Lynch's participation in the business of TM evangelism. I have a hard time getting too worked up over a bunch of bored college kids being lured into spending their parents' money trying to buy their way into being a cool, edgy artist (in fact, it's its own form of transcendentalism for me). But who doesn't enjoy seeing the fanboys get worked into a lather?


Transcending Lynch will screen at the San Francisco International Film Festival April 22 - May 6.

The Grassroots Crisis

There is a blackhole in the lifespan of every film, a period producers often joke that directors don't even realize exists until they've entered it. It's called post-post-production or marketing, the process of getting a film in front of an audience. As Director/Cinematographer Michael Tully said in a recent Twitter conversation, "making a good film is its own war and [I] hate hearing talk about posters before the film is actually made." It's slightly tacky and extremely daunting to think about how you're going to entice an audience to show up when you've been working 18 hour days just to get the thing made. But those of us who have investors to answer to don't have the luxury of imagining a scene where our film gets accepted into Sundance and the Weinsteins show up to carry it away on golden wings. (These days the Weinsteins themselves probably can't convince themselves of that.)

In the past, when marketing was done well, it was completely invisible to the viewer. Word of mouth and well-placed reviews were enough to get people to see your film at a festival or (in the glory days) to its theatrical exhibitions. Now, with more competition for fewer festival slots (many fests scaling back due to loss of corporate sponsors) and fewer distributors to buy films, the hustle of selling films has become an increasingly public performance--as elemental to the film as its plot synopsis.

Until recently, one of the most popular tools film-maker teams employed was the swag approach. Creating tchotkes for press kits or to hand out at festivals was a fun ploy that both reminded festival goers of a film and served as tongue-in-cheek commentary about the ridiculousness of swag itself. My friend and mentor Brian Benson's first film that went to Sundance (Groove, a narrative about club kids shot around the Bay Area) handed out miniature disco balls with the film's name emblazoned them. Later, with Cherish, a comedy about an unlikely romance between a woman under house arrest and her parole officer, they handed out velcro "ankle monitors". These items were funny, memorable and (God willing) enticed a few more audience members or distribution reps to attend his screenings. 

In our modern age, this early connection to viewers is still key, but the way these interactions take place has changed drastically. We're rarely more than a few feet away from our phones (and physical swag has the gauche aura of having a Godzilla-sized carbon footprint) so general thinking about how to build these relationships to viewers has become more focused on building interactive websites, engaging social networks and smartphone apps that make your message more "sticky."

Documentary has always had a problem with "sticky." Rarely do non-fiction films have the visual signatures that narratives can lean on. Documentaries that are tied to some kind of social issue have a little bit more to work with. King Corn has a fun (and mildly addictive) online "corn maze" game where the players answers trivia questions about food politics and help a farmer collect ladybugs. 

With a film like The Adults in the Room, a documentary I produced with Phoebe Owens last summer, the issue becomes even more complicated. The Adults is a hybrid documentary-narrative about a relationship our director Andy Blubaugh had at age 15 with a deeply closeted man twice his age. Now in his 30s and teaching young teens, Andy reflects upon how this relationship served as the foundation for his future relationships, as well as the startling contrast in how he perceives and relates to children and his students. 

The film explores boundary gray areas and how culture and the law succeed and fail at protecting teenagers. In the film, celebrated advice columnist Dan Savage shares that his first sexual encounter would technically be considered statutory rape--and that he has no regrets about those events. The bevy of guidance counselors and journalists we talked to have differing opinions. Since one of Andy's goals with The Adults in the Room is to engage dialogue around the gray areas of the thorny issues raised by his experiences, it's unlikely anyone interested in the issue of statutory rape as a social cause would be an ally to our film. 

In one (late night) producer meeting, we bandied about the idea to build an iPhone app where people could look up age of consent laws based on location. Or create an intuitive database that sifted through LiveJournal postings to determine which zip codes had the most depressive or horny teenagers. And since we've affectionately shortened the film's title to "TAITR" for most of our discussions, I came up with "a game.. that involves.. tater tots?" For obvious reasons, none of these ideas left the table. 

Despite our creative failures in that regard, we've been honored to be invited to screen the film at festivals in Sarasota, Ashland, Miami, New York and San Francisco. As we get ready for 'the festival fugue' we're constantly asking ourselves, "are we doing enough?" 

Last month we were delighted to partner up with Kickstarter, an exciting new online venture that crowdsources funds for creative projects in various states of completion. In doing so, the film has been covered as part of crowdsource funding stories in indieWIRE and NPR. With the flood of new interest we find ourselves now asking, "Is begging for money the new post-post-production strategy?" 

Here's hoping it works. 

Review: The Runaways

It's easy to imagine an alternate universe (let's say, the early 80s) where The Runaways, the new rock'n'roll biopic about the titular band that launched the careers of Joan Jett and Lita Ford, is deemed insignificant by the masses but considered a secret treasure by a small, devoted following -- passed back and forth on battered VHS tapes. It's easy to imagine, because this is precisely what happened to the film's most natural predecessor, Ladies and Gentlemen the Fabulous Stains, which starred a young Diane Lane and Laura Dern as two working class, teenage hellions who start a rock band that eventually destroys all that is good and decent in America.

The Stains barely saw the light of day after it was released in 1982 but was championed in handmade zines, had under the radar midnight screenings at film festivals and was practically an eBay staple for decades until receiving a proper dvd release from Rhino Records in late 2008. I remember having a late night porch conversations with friends about the storied bootlegs that were copied from Australian television broadcasts rather than American television broadcasts, that version had boobs and cussing. As though it had come from the post-Stains world itself.

But in a post-Britney/Courtney/Gaga world, The Runaways faces no such danger of obscurity. The hyper-sexualization of its lead child actors Dakota Fanning (War of the Worlds, The Cat in the Hat) and Kristin Stewart (Twilight, Adventureland) is so expected at this point in their careers that even the girl-on-girl kiss scene between their characters, used in the trailer, feels a little stodgy. It's an interesting commentary on our culture that The Runaways languished in turnaround for 5+ years until these two box office megas came on board, but their influence and power cannot overcome the dictates that to remain relevant as actresses they have to be naked and gyrating as soon as they hit puberty.

The Runaways also has a fascinating parallel to many "women's pictures" of the time it depicts. A group of teenage girls start a rock'n'roll band, Joan Jett being the only one among them with much in the way of chops but what they lack in talent they make up for in dedication, born in the flames of hating their dull, middle class lives. They're sneered at by the establishment until they become a profitable enterprise, then everyone wants a piece of The Runaways. But since their only collective aspiration was to be in the rock'n'roll scene without being relegated to girlfriend status, they're easily corrupted by outside forces. Eventually lead singer Cherie Curie feels so taken advantage of by the monster that's been created in her likeness, her only recourse is to destroy everything she's built and start from scratch. Unable to secure the legal rights for the majority of the band members, The Runaways focuses on the relationship between Curie and Jett. Leaving poor Lita Ford to be little more than a studio-trashing teenage siren who only speaks in the last 15 minutes of the film. (Sorry to see you left out, Lita, "Kiss Me Deadly" still rules though.)

And while it's exciting see the way the radical feminist performance art of the 70s informs much of the film's visual choices (there's a near constant stream of menstrual blood, urine and dog feces hurled at the viewer to underline director Floria Sigismondi's points), The Runaways is ultimately the most satisfying as a straightforward document of the agonies and rewards of starting a band as a teenager. We see the monotonous hours of band practice in sweaty garages, the horrible gigs before you develop a following, tours where you go broke, people constantly taking advantage before you've even had time to develop an identity or purpose and always the condescending sound guys.

But for as intimately as Sigismondi understands the drudgery of being in a band (coming from the world of directing music videos, one can assume she's seen quite a bit) she also understands its ineffable glories. The shows where the audience goes crazy (depicted here in a roller rink, be still my beating heart) and the open door policy of sexual and chemical experimentation that can build a bridge between the long periods of isolation and tedium with the fleeting moments of public acceptance and ecstasy. None of which is treated with standard rock biopic puritanicalism (paging: Ray, Walk the Line, Cadillac Records) but instead as the residuals of fame that (especially if you didn't read the record deal before signing it) are way more reliable than actual residuals.

For the Runaways, much of this opportunity and drama was created by their manager Kim Fowley, played in the film by go-to weirdo Michael Shannon (Revolutionary Road, Shotgun Stories). Fowley's contributions to the band have definitely been cleaned up for mass consumption, but even scrubbed clean of statutory rape, forced abortions and giving drugs to minors, Shannon still finds ways to imbue the screaming lunatic with appropriate amounts of mania, horror and charisma.

The Runaways will screen in Portland at the Hollywood Theater on April 5th, with real life Runaways signer Cherie Curie on-hand for a post-screening Q&A. The event is a benefit for the Rock'n'Roll Camp for Girls. It opens wide April 9th.