Steady Diet of Film

Review: Lucky

A lot of thought has been put into exploring the possible science of what makes us happy. A spate of pop psychology pieces have explored the matrix of whether our romantic relationships are equitable enough, how we should feel about children, did we ever develop coping mechanisms for life’s setbacks, do we find our work meaningful -- much of their findings go against the grain of conventional (read: capitalist) wisdom. But all of these theorists agree on one point, as long as our basic needs our being met, money changes nothing when it comes to being happy. In fact, all of these pieces cite the same study my Economics professor (and also Notorious B.I.G.) was touting 10 years ago, once you make $40,000 a year, more money will only bring you more problems. A figure that seems oddly impervious to inflation or cost of living increases.

Jeffrey Blitz’s (Spellbound, Rocket Science) breezy documentary Lucky looks at a handful of lottery winners to see how a sudden influx of hyper-wealth changed their lives. Blitz opens by interviewing people in a convenience store buying lottery tickets for a jackpot that’s reached over $250 million. Blitz has selected a store near a homeless mission for maximum poetry, and their lotto aspirations cuts a seemingly wide swath of the human condition from “I just want to help people” to “America owes me one”.

In Lucky, the lottery winners who started out with structured, middle class lives all attempt to maintain normalcy, they each put enough money into a trust to ensure a lifelong safety net for their children, they might buy a nicer car -- but they typically go about their lives as much as possible -- one woman even vows to keep her job at a meat-processing plant. But a later check-in shows that their one lucky break has earned the contempt of their friends and extended family, worsened fissures in marriages and made the gig at the meat-processing plant seem a lot less desirable.

The people who struck it rich at a point when they were barely scraping by fare even more poorly. Having no framework to manage money or gauge the caliber of the people around them, they were each left vulnerable to manipulative bottom-feeders and easily seduced by ostentatious spending that eventually collapsed in on itself. Six jet planes, seven wives (fourteen breasts enhanced), five hundred pairs of pants and a life-sized Nativity scene flown in from Spain (never opened) reads like a Craig’s List ad that doubles as a cautionary tale.

Blitz appears to believe the one true “winner” of the bunch is Quang Dao, a  Vietnamese immigrant who experienced grinding poverty and strife as a child and as a young adult settled in Lincoln, Nebraska. Dao now has a massive family (totaling 30 in the States and 80+ back in Vietnam) that he is able to make comfortable with massive homes and set up with their own businesses. It’s telling that this distinctly American enterprise is only able to create lasting enrichment for the people with none of the expectations or interest in the mythology Americans have created around the lottery.  

After experiencing such meteoric rises and falls each person grows reflective about why they won so much money and what life lesson can be taken away from it. Even the tuxedo’d host of a Powerball show waxes  philosophical as he applies pancake makeup, believing he has been given an important post in the world and must act accordingly.

Even if you can’t buy into the notion that people win the lottery For A Reason, Lucky dismantles the idea that sudden wealth merely emboldens the greater or weaker elements of a person’s character -- it throws people into a hyper-privileged chaos that most are ill-equipped to handle. It’s a nice problem to have but beware the warning of Biggie Smalls.


Lucky airs on HBO July 19th.

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.

Review: October Country

My freshman year in college I took a super-8 workshop where over the course of 10 weeks we learned how to light, shoot, edit and project these tiny little strips of film. Our instructor (a woman who would 11 years later become my producing partner) told us that children would be extremely difficult to work with because they've been raised in a digital world and would be frustrated that footage they participated in wouldn't be available to look at for weeks. Even a decade later I can clearly remember in that moment thinking, "those kids have a point". I learned the bare minimum of how filmstock functions at the point in the digital transition when people who cared about art were happy holdouts, working exclusively with film no matter the expense or time-suck (or frustration of children). At that time digital was associated exclusively with activist-oriented documentaries, bent on conveying a point of view for low costs and with even lower expectations.

Donal Mosher and Michael Palmieri's documentary October Country demonstrates that new technologies have emerged to allow the best of these ideologies to merge. Shot entirely on digital, October Country shows a year in the life of four generations of Donal's family. The Moshers reside in upstate New York and each of them readily admit are trapped in a terrible cycle of poverty, domestic violence, child molestation and PTSD. Despite the constant misfortune it depicts, it's one of the most beautifully shot films this side of a Wong Kar-Wai story. October also demonstrates the awareness even casual users have developed with being recorded and how infinitely copyable these images have become. In one scene, wise-cracking tween Desiree watches footage of herself trick-or-treating while snacking on that evening's goodies and insists, "You're going to get me a DVD of this, right?"

Grandparents Dottie and Don preside over the damaged brood. Dottie spends so much her time in damage control mode she admits she doesn't even know what 'normal' is anymore. Don quietly agrees with his wife's assessment of him -- that after serving in the military and working as a police officer for 27 years he's become a hardened and difficult person to live with. While working on household projects to add incremental value to their property, he sagely observes his failures to prevent the young women in his life from reaching out to emotionally distant abusers to re-create a malformed sense of security. Don's sister Denise, crippled with rheumatoid arthritis in her 30s, lives nearby but has little relationship with her brother. Dottie and Don's daughter Donna has two daughters, Daneal (who became a mom at age 16) and Desiree (whose father is in prison for molesting Daneal). Teenage Chris, a foster child taken in by the Mosher grandparents, was cast out of his own family at age 5 after being accused of molesting his sister.

Because the Moshers are telling their story to their own son/brother/uncle the film avoids a three act structure or excessive exposition. We understand almost immediately how low the trajectory is for these people's lives and instead of expecting any last minute heroics, we're allowed to settle in with their feelings about their situation. And as these stories develop organically a host of secondary issues flourish without feeling like one is being beaten over the head by a Micheal Moore-style agenda. We see how drastically a small town is affected when cost-cutting measures are taken at the factory that employs much of the town, the resentments that bubbles up within a family who blame each other for their lot in life and how disproportionately poor women are victims of sexual violence.

What will keep October Country in the good graces of the lovers of complicated films who just a few years ago believed the only way to convey emotion was on expensive, time-sucking celluloid is the film's implicit belief that society lacks the will, interest or ability to address their particular crisis. Denise lives in subsidized housing, Daneal collects food stamps, Desiree's father is in prison for child molestation and Chris is in and out of juvenile detention for petty crimes. But none of the Moshers believe these are meaningful interventions or will ever be effective corrective measures. Instead they are seen as stop-gap measures to further bide their time. Most documentaries that depict crisis are able to end with a title card telling the audience to give money to an organization or write their congressman. That's not an option for October Country, nor do we ever see a talking head of a social worker, politician or academic to explain what can be done about the issues of violence, addiction and poverty. The Moshers' story highlights both the worst elements of humanity, the messy long-lasting aftermath and the inability to address the root cause of these issues.

Update: October Country will be screening in Portland at Fox Tower Fri April 2 - Thurs April 8, 2010.
Directors in attendance on Friday and Saturday 7:05pm screenings.

Review: Outrage

Outrage

Rating (out of 5): ****

To each generation of gay rights activists there is a galvanizing moment where the status quo becomes intolerable. In the 80s it was the Reagan administration's denial of AIDS while half a million Americans died; in the 90s it was the passage of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell," banning gays from serving in the military. In the Aughts it was the totality of the 2004 Republican strategy to win the presidency and house seats by funding anti-gay measures across the states' to encourage religious fundamentalists to vote.

The documentar Outrage presents BlogActive creator Michael Rogers as the leader of a new opposition movement. Rogers employs the values of old-fashioned yellow journalism with the tenacity and immediacy of blogging to collect data and out political figures who by night have same sex partners but spend their daylight hours chipping away at the civil liberties and safety of out homosexuals. Outrage also demonstrates the baffling inability of mainstream media to cover these issues at all -- even when it involves inappropriate expenditures of funds to take a same sex staffers on exotic locations or when it is a clear-cut case of hypocrisy. (Though the film leaves aside any issue of how one defines lesser hypocrisies when the nature of federal legislation is so convoluted, a single vote impacts a myriad of different issues.)

Read the rest of my review at Greencine.

Review: The Jazz Baroness

Produced for the BBC and directed by her great-grand niece Hannah Rothschild, The Jazz Baroness focuses on the life and influence of Pannonica de Koenigswarter (Nica for short), a wealthy child of the Rothschild financial empire who developed an unlikely relationship with pianist Thelonious Monk years before jazz music had reached any level of acceptance in well-regarded society. 

The anti-black hostility of the 1950s coupled with the vast chasm between their socio-economic backgrounds -- he the child of sharecroppers with a history of mental illness and she the daughter of a German Jewish family that the British monarchy once asked for a loan -- inevitably made the very existence of their coupling somewhat of a spectacle. But The Jazz Baroness emphasizes how much common ground Monk and Nica found in love of music and how his (undiagnosed) illnesses and constant state of poverty fed her desire to be seen as a caretaker after having spent her childhood and young adulthood in a cage made of spun gold. 

The film employs interviews with several musicians, writers and various scenesters of the New York jazz scene from the 1950s through the 70s including Quincy Jones, Thelonious Monk Junior, Clint Eastwood, Sonny Rollins and Dan Morgenstern. Helen Mirren narrates letters written to friends, giving some insight to Nica's inner life. There is also rare super-8 footage shot by band members of Monk and Nica chatting as well as live recordings of Nica introducing Monk's performances and Monk sweetly crooning to her from the stage. 

The excrutiatingly proper Rothschild family were so mortified by the heiress's decision to ditch her husband and five children and take up with a group of black musicians, that she had all but been written out of the family's legacy. Early on Director Rothschild also expresses feelings of inadequacy about the expectations of her high society life and as a film-maker approaches her subject with the generosity of a curious progeny rather than an investigator. But Rothschild also takes great pride in the accomplishments of her family, even as she conveys disappointment with their treatment of Nica. One of the key interviews representing the clan is a great aunt who recounts how many of their family members were brutally killed in the Holocaust. Assembled alongside a considerable amount of wealth porn to help us understand the virtual Versailles the Rothschilds had to abandon to move to the States and the militaristic dedication they had to maintaining their previous way of life. 

The Jazz Baroness provides insight into how the culture and political climate of the time impacted Nica and Monk's unlikely relationship and purposely leaves aside any (seemingly) obvious issues of drug abuse, child abandonment or infidelity. This lends a sweetness to the film that feels absent in a lot of music and art history documentaries, especially of those that center on the non-central figures of the scene.

RIYL: Elevator to the Gallows, Marie Antoinette, Bird (Eastwood), Jazz (Burns), Scott Walker: 30th Century Man. 

The Jazz Baroness screens at the Reel Music festival in Portland this weekend. 

Review: Youth in Revolt

Looking over a few of the Best Films of the Aughts lists, you might notice something sad and startling: virtually no American independent films made the cut. It would appear there was zero new talent to replace all of the promise and excitement of film-makers like Spike Lee, Richard Linklater, Gregg Araki, Robert Rodriguez, Steven Soderbergh and Allison Anders who came on the 90s film scene full of piss and vinegar and have since mostly evolved into studio film-makers. During that period a person could go deaf from all the artists moaning about how many of their peers gave into the amorphous threat of "selling out" but the Aughts demonstrated an even bleaker possibility. Plenty of film-makers were happy to neuter themselves far in advance of Daddy Bigbucks even hinting interest.

If you worked in film, read about film or had even a passing interest in film you might have noticed certain recurring themes in the narrative films that became superstars of the festival circuit. In fact, if you were paying any attention at all, you may have at times felt bludgeoned by the ill-conceived repetition: white middle-class American man in his late 20s, can't grow up, can't commit to his lovely girlfriend, hates his parents, still mad about not being popular in high school and can't hold a job. Happily absent any political conscience in one of the darkest periods of our nation's history, these pixie boys were overwhelmed by the combination of their own privilege and total lack of expectations for greatness (or even goodness in most cases). A host of whacky secondary characters (this is where you might see anyone who is old, queer, fat, sexual, poor or not white) would turn up to wax on with poetic, folksy metaphors about the protagonist's desperate plight, he would make a large dramatic gesture towards reconciling all previous wrongs -- top it off with a hip soundtrack and there you have the history of Independent Film-making 2000-2009 in a nutshell.

And in the late Aughts these protagonists managed to regress even further and so began the over-identification with high school age children. These emotionally fragile oracles who were somehow jaded by a world they'd had no interaction with were hyper-articulate, possessed a tightly metered sexuality and a carefully calibrated host eccentricities to substitute for a glaring lack of personality or depth. As if upcoming American film-makers decided en masse if they could just re-write their own biographies they would magically re-awaken as thoughtful, competent human beings making interesting art. In the words of perhaps the Aughts most cherished commentator the LOLCat, FAIL.

 

Which brings us to Miguel Arteta, whose 2000 film Chuck & Buck was a darkly funny precursor to excoriating male bonding films like Old Joy and Humpday but has since faded into the landscape of good television and helming the noble but forgettable Jennifer Aniston vehicle Good Girl.

In his Arteta's latest Youth in Revolt, Michael Cera (who it's hard to believe anyone age-appropriate would ever identify with), plays Nick Twisp another misunderstood child of divorce. His slutty mom (Jean Smart) and his noble eunuch father (Steve Buscemi) share custody bouncing him back and forth between the suburbs of Berkeley and a trailer park in the sticks of Northern California. He falls head over heels with Sheeni Saunders (Portia Doubleday) the girl next door who is (sigh) dating the jerky, but confident Trent. To help him get in touch with his own inner douchebag, Nick creates an alternate personality Francois Dillinger, a delightful French ruffian who makes them good boys go bad. In a misguided attempt to win Sheeni's affection, Nick sets fire to a restaurant which results in her getting shipped off to a French-language boarding school a few hundred miles away and him hiding out in his mom's trailer with her increasingly repulsive line-up of boyfriends.

It's telling that Francois Dillinger's every scene is riffed in Youth in Revolt's trailer. Dillinger represents both the film's sole source of levity (the first third is so leaden and self-serious I wasn't even sure if the film is a comedy) but also its greatest failings. Teenagers of the 21st century have so much access pop culture history there truly is a seemingly endless fluidity of personality and representation. Even a meathead could do a google search Serge Gainsbourg and get what Nick Twisp was going for in the time it takes to read a Wikipedia entry and look at a YouTube video. But instead of having any fun with what actual teenagers' lives are about, Arteta is obsessed with keep the film totally airless and mired in unremembered nostalgia (really, tan corduroy pants again? When will this cruel, sartorial hell Wes Anderson hath wrought finally end?)

Hopefully, Youth In Revolt represents a bookend to this unfortunate chapter of cinema history. I doubt it will, but just in case.. a note to artists everywhere, now in their 30s (or worse) and still desperately trying to re-write their failed pubescent period: You're a tyrant to your preciousness. Your peers clearly made the right choice in shunning you because you're insufferable and boring. Please, if not for the sake of art then for your own well-being, just stop.



CC: Rian Johnson, Zach Braff, Jared Hess, Seth Gordon, Diablo Cody, Jesse Eisenberg.

Review: Nine

In Nine, Daniel Day Lewis stars as Guido Cantino (is it me, or does that name qualify as a mild hate crime?), a flamboyant Italian film-maker whose next movie (his ninth) has been pre-destined by his handlers and studio to not only be a masterpiece but restore his entire country's sense of pride and dignity. Italia is set to begin shooting in a week with a massive budget and hundreds of craftspeople hard at work but Guido has yet to write a single word of the script or even come up with a concept. Attempting to break his writer's block, Cantino wiles away his time with the many (many, many) beautiful women in his life including his mother, staff, wife, mistress, muse, fans and a prostitute.

Nine was adapted from Maury Yeston's Broadway musical which was loosely based on the classic Frederico Fellini film 8 1/2. But similar to Werner Herzog's (ironically, rather Fellini-esque) re-make of Abel Ferrera's Bad Lieutenant earlier this year, you're better off having little knowledge of the inspirational material. It's better to just accept Nine on its own merits.

The film boast an other-wordly assemblage of actresses and female performers but bad staging, boxy cinematography and leaden songs flatten out much of their natural charisma. Penelope Cruz is the only one who escapes the least scathed as mistress Carla, a role that allows Cruz's delicate balance of playful and pained to be fully displayed. A mostly wordless Mamma Cantino is played by the legendary Sophia Loren. Kate Hudson is a free-wheeling, sexual libertine who's arrived in Italy to write about Italia for an American fashion magazine. Dame Judi Dench plays Lilli, Cantino's long-time costumer, who shows up only occasionally to deliver a load of exposition and a quick zinger. Fergie (of the Black Eyed Peas) appears as a prostitute, who (in flashbacks) teaches the young Guido about the art of pleasing women. She's also the only one with a memorable song and the ability to keep her hair out of her mouth while performing. Marion Cotillard feels like she's in another movie entirely, creating real compassion for Guido's jilted wife Luisa. Mrs. Cantino gave up her own career to be engulfed by the life and influence of her husband.. only to discover a new mistress behind every door. Nicole Kidman plays Claudia, Guido's golden muse and go-to starlet. Her presence is felt but she only really arrives at the end of the film to deliver some hard truths to Guido.

In a scene rich with potential, Guido and Claudia flee the paparazzi in his adorable Italian sports car then immediately get into a passive-aggressive argument. She eggs him on for details about the script, he flares up in anger, saying, "No one cares about my script, they come to see you. They're more interested in the way you turn your head then anything I have to say!" This is such a missed opportunity to use Kidman to provide some insight (or just fun) as a woman whose personal life has been dominated by tabloid coverage but still managed to emerge as a respected actress. Instead, Claudia meekly confesses her love for Guido (guh) then in an abrupt turn tells him the reason he can no longer write is because he is devoid of any real human feeling. Now, having burned through his charm, he's been revealed as an empty hull of a man and saunters off-screen.

Up to this point, Guido has been able to convince himself of his own greatness. Carla's character is extremely inviting to Guido. (Indeed, Cruz and Lewis's phone sex scene is one of the more memorable sequences in the film.) Yet he's turned off when she confesses that she spends every waking hour psychologically imprinting herself to understand him. Kate Hudson's go-go dancing journalist professes to be a huge fan of his work, but can only discuss the style of clothing his characters wear. Lilli ruthlessly teases him that directing is a fool's errand, and he can't even do that right. But it's long-time collaborator Claudia's rejection that ultimately convinces him he's finished.

The film's technical flaws would be easier to forgive if not for the glaring mis-casting of Daniel Day Lewis as Guido Cantino. What moviegoers admire about Lewis is that he chooses outlandish, larger-than-life roles and then commits completely to pouring himself into the necessary (if maniacal) mold. He's an excellent technician who can hit his psychological marks but Lewis doesn't generate enough of his own creative impulses to ever be believed as an auteur whose every whim must be indulged. Nor does he possess any natural charisma or sex appeal to help us understand why all of these women suffer so much abuse at his hands. Watching Lewis in nearly every frame of Nine is akin to watching an auto mechanic try to figure skate.

These issues notwithstanding, Nine is not without its charms or wisdom. Last week Manola Darghis wrote a scathing editorial on institutional sexism currently present in the film industry. In a particularly great passage Darghis focuses on what little evidence is required for men to be considered creative geniuses. All they have to do is show a little potential early on and then surround themselves with people who tell them they're great. This theme resonates in Nine, as we're never made to believe Guido's talents warrant the lavish attention and resources being heaped upon him or tremendously invested in his comeback.

Nine will not be a satisfying experience to people who find it via its Fellini connection. Absent is the intoxicating empowerment of watching the world (chiefly, women and their bodies) through Fellini's worshipful lens. Or the rich pleasure of his troubled yet charming playboys. But it's a tour de force for some cinema's most exciting women that may prove to have more cultural significance a few years removed from our current state of celebrity obsession.

Review: Visual Acoustics: The Modernism of Julius Shulman

Visual Acoustics: The Modernism of Julius Shulman is an utterly affable look at the life of the now-deceased photographer whose depictions of Southern California modernist architecture made a hippy artistic movement into a lasting cultural phenomenon. Schulman (an active participant in the documentary but passed away before it was released) hooked up with Richard Neutra, John Lautner and Frank Gehry at a time when Los Angeles itself was in a state of re-creation and upheaval. The film provides a glimpse into the rarefied world of modernist architecture and the people who mortgage themselves to the teeth trying to protect it.

Though the bulk of the work depicted in his photographs are private residences, Schulman's complicated relationship with higher education provides the documentary's framework. As a young man he attended seven years of college without completing a degree, when universities appeared in his work he often showed them as imposing institutions but (in a closing scene that has become quite cliche in non-fiction storytelling) by the end of the film Schulman is presented with an honorary doctorate. The film also delights in using animated sequences to illustrate the creation, influence and clashes in the history of modern design starting in the early 1900s all the way to the present. These scenes demonstrate that an appreciation for the fine art is a living thing -- agnostic to where (or why, or if) the viewer attended school.

 

Because of the advanced age of so many of the subjects, most of the people available as experts are the children, assistants, devotees and students of these men who are, understandably, uncritical. And while not every documentary needs to be an expose to be interesting, a few interesting nuggets go by with nary a follow-up question. Several references are made to Schulman being strongly favored by his mother over his four siblings growing up. At this late stage in his life one wonders how that impacted his artistic growth and/or his own parenting practices (his daughter contributes a great deal of doting, if content-less commentary). We also hear several sideways comments about Schulman clashing with his frequent collaborator Richard Neutra but no further explanation on how that affected their work process over time.

There are also a few celebrity enthusiasts interviewed including actress Kelly Lynch, who happily discusses how much she loves her Neutra-designed home -- even as she and her husband admit in the same breath that much of the space is impractical and rarely used. Fashion designer and film-maker Tom Ford delights in providing a cultural context for understanding how this work was conceived in a time of equal discovery (landing on the moon!) and uncertainty (Cuban missile crisis!) It goes unmentioned in Visual Acoustics (probably due to the timing of the productions), but Ford used a John Lautner-designed home for his recent film A Single Man. Filling out the celebrity involvement, actor Dustin Hoffman provides the film's narration.

Director Eric Bricker has created a comprehensive document of something we're not frequently invited to consider, the natural beauty of Los Angeles (as interpreted through the creation of lavish homes). As we sit in the aftermath of a recently collapsed housing market, that's left an uncertain economy and thousands of abandoned McMansions in its wake, Visual Acoustics provides a pleasant psychic sabbatical to a time when enormous amounts of wealth were being thrown into home construction and it created something with a lasting legacy and infinite imagination.

Visual Acoustics is playing in select cities. In Portland at the Living Room Theaters.


RIYL: Objectified, The Kid Stays in the Picture, Los Angeles Plays Itself, No Subtitles Necessary: Laszlo & Vilmos, Herb & Dorothy, My Kid Could Paint That.

Review: The Horse Boy

When we meet the Isaacsons, they are a family at the end of their rope. The limits of their patience have been battered by son Rowan's autism, they've exhausted every treatment offered by Western medicine and are still left with a child who at the age of four is not potty trained, can barely speak and is almost constantly in a state of violent tantrum. Inspired by the nearly miraculous effect training with horses has on Rowan, they pack up for Mongolia to pursue shamanic healing rituals offered in far-flung provinces by reindeer herders.

Michel O. Scott's directorial debut The Horse Boy (which screened at film festivals under the name Over the Hills and Far Away) tries very hard to keep the focus on Rowan's incremental progress. But the thrill-seeking New Age parents, father Rupert, an Austin-based journalist, and mother Kristin, a professor of psychology, naturally draw more attention to themselves by virtue of being able to articulate the enormous guilt and frustration around their experiences parenting a severely Autistic child. And while their suffering is nearly palpable, they're unable to explain why they think this expedition is going to make a bit of difference.

While we see the disappointment and exasperation on the Isaacsons' weary faces, we never see how this has impacted their relationships with each other or extended family or their careers. As such, the spectacle of a wealthy, attractive, outdoorsy couple being physically and psychologically tormented by Mongolian shamans (the rituals the child endures are far less harrowing) is somewhat mockable. Particularly when the couple complains loudly that Mongolia is not as exotic as they'd hoped or when Rupert congratulates Kristin on having 'such a great sense of humor' when she is informed that the spirit of her schizophrenic grandmother is haunting her child's soul and as a result she must wash her vagina as part of the ritual. It's about this time one begins to hope the descendants of Genghis Khan will make an appearance. The douching ritual, and so many other TMI moments in this story, are left onscreen--though thankfully with some dignified pixelation.

Woven into the Isaacsons' story is a collection of talking head interviews with scientists and Autism researchers who elaborate on the confusion that surrounds the disorder. The film's editor Rita K. Sanders has an excellent flair for conveying the chaos within the world of Autism--despite the fact millions of people are considered to be somewhere on the Autism spectrum, there are no universally agreed upon causes, symptoms or diagnostic methods. It's through these talking heads we gain a better understanding for why pursuing costly, experimental treatments (that can have many bizarre side effects) can feel like a never ending crap shoot for parents. The reality is that parents feel cruel for trying and damned for not trying. Early on, the Isaacsons talk about the host of creams, diets, exercise regiments and a morning cocktail of hardcore anti-viral drugs--all with intermittent improvements.

The Horse Boy is extremely effective as a travelogue. The inner steppes of Mongolia and its natural wildlife (reindeer, it turns out, look nothing like their Christmas jingle depictions!) have rarely been captured by western documentary crews. This vast, majestic beauty does not escape Scott's lens.

Still, there is something missing from Horse Boy as a document of a family driven to the brink and enduring a harrowing experiment. It goes unmentioned that the trip is financed through a million dollar advance on a book deal secured by Mr. Isaacson. This might help explain why Mrs. Isaacson is rarely invited to contribute more than blithe agreements with anything her husband says and why he is positioned as an authority on shamanic rituals and constantly congratulated for discovering the therapeutic benefits of Rowan's horse training. And even though Jenny McCartney, the dating game show hostess that became an icon of superficiality in the 1990's pop culture, has been able to re-invent herself as a poster mom for families dealing with Autism, one can imagine most families still feel like it's them against the world as they try to navigate their situation.

But this lack of disclosure infuses Horse Boy with undeniable measure of both smugness and self-consciousness. The Isaacsons' (especially Rupert, who provides the voiceover narration for the film) need to be depicted as endlessly patient saints who can drop everything and travel to Mongolia, not because of their wealth or need for adventure and attention, but because they just care so much about their beleaguered son is going to be a tough one for average parents of Autistic children to identify with and even less appealing to those not impacted by the disease.


RIYL: Hear and Now, Sound and Fury, Reel Paradise.

The Horse Boy is playing in select cities. In Portland at the Hollywood Theatre.

Review: La danse - Le ballet de l'Opéra de Paris

These days, it's difficult to discuss a Frederick Wiseman film when the concept of documentary is so dominated by polemical diatribes and activist efforts to yank heart-strings. Having pioneered the "fly on the wall" approach, his films have no music, no voiceover narration, no title cards identifying time, place or speaker. Standard talking head style interviews are rare. Absent these fairly standard conventions, his films are never without their own unique momentum, passion and ideas. Wiseman tends to be drawn to large, complex institutions. He breaks them down, making them seem both like an intimate community and a microcosm for larger concerns in the culture. His naturalistic approach has led to his work frequently being tagged as an apolitical or austere. The former characterization I've had the distinct pleasure of seeing him vehemently deny in person and the latter I'm happy to argue against.

His shoots typically last between four to six weeks, making his camera and team probably actually feel like a fly on the wall. He then spends the better part of a year in an editing room, teasing out the rhythms and tensions of the places he explores. Since he tends to focus on venues that are strapped for cash (mental hospitals, state legislatures, high schools, welfare offices, etc.) or where stakes are very high (an Army basic training camp, the Neiman Marcus corporation, an ad agency), dramatic tension is never in low supply.

Wiseman's 38th film La Danse focuses on the Paris Opera Ballet as they prepare to unveil a program boasting seven new performances. In the architectural utopia they inhabit, we see the ceilings painted by Marc Chagall, ornate doorways and hidden alcoves--all of which must eventually be delicately vacuumed by a janitor. We see costumers sewing away at delicate layers of tulle skirts and tutus, while the financial people sit upstairs in a windowless conference room trying to put together luxury packages for big donors. The creative directors fight to bring in more modern choreography and programs, while the administrators fret that newer ballets create quagmires of licensing issues while selling fewer tickets.

To the great delight of dance lovers, we spend a great deal of time in the rehearsal spaces seeing the ballet come together as the coaches confer, analyze and reminiscence about how dancing styles and trends have changed over the years. Apparently these days there is a much stronger emphasis on "bottom-heavy" dancing than in the 50s and 60s, clearly the influence of Beyonce. And to my immense personal pleasure, we spend a fair amount of time in the cafeteria seeing not only what the staff eats but how they interact in their downtime.

When determining whether to watch a Wiseman film one should never ask "am I interested in this subject matter?" Instead, the relevant question is "am I ready to be fully immersed in this subject matter?" When we see scenes from the finalized performances, the drama and consequences depicted (though magnificently executed) seem somewhat weakened by the stakes the company itself is up against. In fact, a particular failed American investment bank is a high-ranking underwriter. Everything in our current global economy has been re-tooled to to emphasize short-term gains and immediate growth to the point that several giants have crumbled. What chance does the Paris Opera Ballet, which requires so much long-term investment, enormous overhead and offers few cross-promotional tie-in possibilities -- to fend off its own rapidly approaching extinction?


La Danse is playing in select cities. In Portland at Cinema 21 with a special benefit screening for the Oregon Ballet Theater on December 15th with OBT Artistic Director and several dancers on hand for a Q&A afterwards. The film will also be available on dvd in the Spring of 2010.