Tribeca Film Festival 2008 - Day Six

On Tuesday morning, I managed to catch one of the festival's least impressive programs of shorts entitled, "Cold Feet"-- a melange of films that were for the most part slickly produced and mildly entertaining, but largely lacked any soul and sometimes bordered on the precious. The main theme that seemed to connect them all was the idea of self-doubt, whether it be in the course of discovering how to think for oneself (Matthew Modine's "I Think I Thought"); trudging through a romantic relationship (Hyoe Yamamoto's "When I Become Silent"); avenging a loved one (actor Rider Strong and brother Shiloh Strong's "Irish Twins"); carrying out a scheme of corporate blackmail and subterfuge (Nico Zingelmann's "Shift"); finding love despite a debilitating physical condition (Eric Gavel's "Eau Boy"); figuring out a way to procure uniforms for a soccer tournament for free (Michele Alhaique's "The Tournament"); or protecting oneself from the consequences of making a fatal mistake (Andrew Okpeaha MacLean's "Sikumi").

The only short out of these which felt truly unique and original was MacLean's "Sikumi," which takes a rare look at the Arctic Alaskan landscape and the types of characters that populate its mostly desolate expanse. In the film, Apuna, an Inuit hunter, comes upon two men from his village embroiled in a vicious fight. In a bout of drunken fury, one of the men kills the other. When the murderer claims self-defense, Apuna is suddenly put in the precarious position of having to choose between honoring the memory of the victim and destroying the reputation and life of the killer.

Worth noting: Shot on anamorphic 35mm at temperatures of 20 degrees below zero, Sikumi is the first film ever made entirely in the Iñupiaq language, which truly makes it a rarity in the history of world cinema.

The next film I caught was Daniela Zanzotto's new documentary, Zoned In. Running at 90-minutes, the film took over seven years to shoot. In it, we follow the journey of Daniel, an African American teen from the Bronx who, by the age of 15, had already sold drugs, fathered a son, witnessed his mother's arrest, and watched two of his brothers get thrown in jail. The film opens with Daniel at age 16, attending the notorious Taft High School in the Bronx, NY, but focused upon doing well in his classes in order to hopefully make it out of "the life" and urban milieu with which he has become so familiar over the years. Daniel's dreams of upward mobility seemingly come true his senior year of high school when he is accepted into a prestigious Ivy-league school, Brown University. Not only is Daniel the first member of his family ever to graduate from high school, but he is headed to one of the best-regarded educational institutions in the country. However, what Daniel doesn't anticipate is how desperately ill-prepared he is for such an elite school-- both academically and socially. During his first two years, Daniel struggles and flails to keep his grades up and makes only a few friends with whom he feels a true kinship or connection. We watch as he expresses his disconnect with the sea of privileged students around him, voices his despair and frustrations with the American education system, and rages against the institutionalized racism and classism that have simultaneously granted him access to limitless resources by way of affirmative action, yet withhold those same privileges, resources and opportunities from the countless numbers of people around whom he grew up back in the projects.

Worth noting: The film is narrated entirely by Daniel and is truthful to a fault-- perhaps to the point of being offensive to those who would rather not acknowledge the vast inequities and injustices that abound within an educational system that favors the privileged and shuts out the less fortunate. To watch Daniel triumph over incredible odds is both inspiring and thought-provoking.


Finally, as the day wound down, I met up with fellow Scarlett blogger Liz Stephens for a nighttime screening of the cult Fellini classic, "Toby Dammit."

Back in the late 1960s, when anthology films were more popular, American International Pictures released a feature length work in the U.S. that was known by several names: Never Bet the Devil Your Head; Spirits of the Dead; Histoires extraordinaires; and Tales of Mystery. It featured three stories based on the writings of Edgar Allen Poe, each directed by a legendary European director: Roger Vadim, Louis Malle, and Federico Fellini. "Toby Dammit," Fellini's contribution, tells the tale of former Shakespearean actor Toby Dammit (played by the British actor Terence Stamp in a tour de force performance), whose thespian career is quickly being destroyed by a nasty drinking habit. He agrees to work on a film in Italy whereby he is to be paid with a Ferrari. Upon arriving at the airport, he is accosted by the papparazi as well as plagued by visions of a little girl who has lost her ball-- the chillingly silent guise of the devil come to take Dammit's soul. The film was scored by musical genius Nino Rota and notably marked the beginning of Fellini's successful working relationship with cinematographer Giuseppe Rotunno.

During the course of the program, the audience was treated to a number of pleasant surprises. There to present the beautiful new print of Toby Dammit (on loan from the collection of the Centro Sperimentale di Cinematografia-Cineteca Nazionale, courtesy of Alberto Grimaldi Productions), was artistic director of the upcoming Taormina Film Festival, Deborah Young. Taormina will be officially presenting the restored "Toby Dammit" to audiences later this summer, thus making this "preview" screening of the film at Tribeca most special indeed. Then, the screening quickly got underway.

As a precursor to the feature presentation, we first watched four out of a series of eight very short films called, "Green Porno," which were conceived, written, and co-directed by the iconic Italian model and actress, Isabella Rossellini. Inspired by the extraordinary sex lives of insects (yup, I said "insects"), each short features Rossellini wearing ridiculously inventive yet cartoonish bug costumes, filmed on a set dressed to comically kindergarten-like perfection. Ultimately intended for distribution and purchase via cellular phones through the company Helio, "Green Porno" first premiered at this year's Sundance Film Festival and then screened at the Berlin Film Festival before coming to Tribeca. It was, in my humble opinion, the funniest thing I had seen all week. (One can now watch "Green Porno" here.)

Then, the feature.

Not having known ahead of time exactly what the film was about or any of the history behind it (besides the fact that it was directed by Fellini), I was most definitely taken aback by "Toby Dammit"'s morbidly fatalistic tone as well as its horrifying vision of a globalized and super-mediated world. As I watched the story unfold, I realized just how terrifying in fact both the title character and the world in which he lives are. Technically speaking, Never Bet the Devil Your Head was classified as horror. But, it's Poe; so it's not the kind of horror that expects to shock with blood, gore, special effects, or even tricks of the camera, but rather with the slow and methodical illustration of the decay of one's soul-- Man's own self-destruction. Painted a ghostly white, with wild eyes and crisply bleached hair, Stamp slurs and rages, smirks and irreverently quips his way as the character Toby Dammit towards certain death, if not eternal damnation. The film reminded me in many ways of Bob Fosse's All That Jazz for its morally bankrupt yet tragic protagonist and the way in which both directors darkly present to the viewer a modern society in which one's only preoccupation is with image and the manipulation thereof.

Once the end credits rolled, the lights came up; and to our delight, Young introduced the esteemed Rotunno himself, who collaborated with Fellini on a number of films after "Dammit" and who restored the print we had just seen, using a chromatic recovery process that saved the film from certain ruin. Rottuno graciously apologized to the audience for his English and took a number of questions. He then shared with us one last gem: the rough cut version of an Italian car commercial that was shot by Fellini in the early 1990s, just before he died. In it, one can hear Fellini's own voice dubbed over the actor's as virtual audio notes as to how he intended the commercial to eventually sound and look. It was a rare and surprising look into one of cinema's master's last works-in-progress.

Good-bye Ebertfest!

Chris Walken sashayed us out the door on the final afternoon of Ebertfest with John Turturro's Romance & Cigarettes (2005), a musical of a blue-collar Queens family starring James Gandolfini, Susan Sarandon and a mess of other amazing actors. It's a bummer of a story how the movie was made and basically shelved after its premiere at the Venice Film Festival in 2005; it sat in the film canister here in the US for another two years almost to the day, when it gained only limited release last September. It evaded me then, but I'm glad I found it finally on Sunday.



The crowd was perfect and pleasant and full of applause--even during the movie, and in particular after the opening musical sequence when the husky Gandolfini swings around a banister full of heartache and distress, a mimic of Gene Kelly in Singin' in the Rain (1952) with much more melancholia and mirth, if a combination of the two are possible.

If you missed Romance & Cigarettes at the theaters, you can find it now on DVD, and I highly recommend you do. Mandy Moore as the youngest of three sisters, Baby, is not saccharine, but plays sweetly with her two elders, characterized by Mary-Louise Parker (another underrated actor if there was one) and Turturro's cousin, Aida Turturro. Aida arrived in person at the fest for a bit of Q&A after the show (as did the film's choreographer, Tricia Brouk), and with utmost enthusiasm helped stave off some of the tedium of audience commentary that can creep up on you.

Aida emphasized how the cast and crew simply clicked while on set, everyone truly wanted to be there and enjoyed their work. It's an unqualified something that translates to the energy of the film, which includes a cast of nearly everyone Turturro knows in Hollywood: the aforementioned Gandolfini, Sarandon, and others, of course, but also Kate Winslet, Steve Buscemi, Eddie Izzard, Amy Sedaris, and my favorite, the indefatigable Elaine Stritch (hilarious, as always).

It was the perfect flick to end the fest--even if the film did end a little too quietly for my tastes. For a musical I did hope to be charmed once more before it faded to black so sadly. You can call that a criticism and a spoiler, I suppose, but it hardly matters, the movie is still lovely.

So adios from Ebertfest! I hope to be back again next year. In the meantime, to echo Bordwell at the very start of the fest, Get Well Roger!

Tribeca Film Festival 2008 - Day Five

Monday mornings are already tough; but, when one is technically on vacation and has to rouse oneself up in order to jump on the subway and make it to a morning screening on time, the prospect of being a sycophantic derelict and staying in bed suddenly becomes magnificently attractive.

Luckily for me, there was a Bill Plympton movie playing.

Rather than sleep away the morning hours, I made it to Plympton's devlishly comic new flick, Idiots and Angels. Plympton has long been known for his extraordinary pencil sketch animation, which often tackles the foibles and darkest aspects of humanity by taking simple and archetypal characters and manipulating their forms within a minimalistic yet surreal landscape. Indeed, with Idiots and Angels, Plympton proves once again why he has gained such a devoted cult following over the years. The film revolves around a morally corrupt Man at odds with the world around him. Every day, he rises from bed and takes pleasure in destroying those with whom he interacts-- whether it be physically (i.e. strangling a man) or spiritually and emotionally (sexually assaulting and humiliating a woman in a public place). As a result, nearly everyone around him either fears him, loathes him, or barely tolerates his presence. That is, until the day the Man begins to grow a pair of wings.

That's right. Wings.

With almost Lynch-ian glee, Plympton explores how this Machiavellian anti-hero must reluctantly deal with his own burgeoning sense of morality-- manifest in a pair of wings that compel him to act against his very nature.

Worth noting: Idiots and Angels' stark, graphic visual style, mature subject matter, and lack of any dialogue make the film a fun outing for adult audiences who crave a lot more bite and savvy to their cartoons than the usual Disney fare.

Next up was the gut wrenching and simultaneously enraging documentary, My Life Inside, by Mexican filmmaker, Lucia Gaja. A contender in this year's World Documentary Competition at Tribeca, My Life Inside tells the real-life story of Rosa Jimenez, a seventeen-year-old illegal immigrant who once harbored dreams of being able to provide her mother back in Mexico with a better life by working in the United States. However, after working as a nanny for several years, what appeared to be a terrible and tragic accident suddenly plunged Rosa into the public eye, and she was accused of murder by the state. Casting a sharply critical eye upon the tragically broken justice system in Texas as well as the plight of thousands of Mexican immigrants who are currently living and working in the United States, Gaja passionately presents to the viewer the many uncertainties and inequities to Rosa's individual case as well as those which commonly plague the criminal court cases of many other immigrants who cannot fully comprehend their rights within the American legal system.

Worth noting: Heartbreaking interviews with Rosa in prison and with Rosa's mother back in Mexico are deftly interwoven with dramatic footage from the trial, all finally leading up to the long-awaited verdict.

Filmmakers of "Eye Opener" (left to right): Paolo Borraccetti ("Have You Ever Heard About Vukovar?"); Unidentified Producer; Unidentified Filmmaker; Miguel Alvarez ("Kid"); Emmanuel Shirinian ("Song of Slomon")

Heading into the evening, I attended the program entitled, "Eye Opener," a collection of narrative short films all revolving around the idea of enlightenment or the moment in which one's perspective is significantly broadened or altered. While all of the films were, for the most part, enjoyable, my favorite was the 13-minute short by French director Didier Canaux, "The Second Life of the Sugar Bowl." In it, an apparently senile, old man wanders about town collecting random bits of flotsam, carefully storing them in a shoulder bag as he distractedly muses to himself. As he encounters a random cast of characters along the way, one begins to wonder where exactly this journey is headed and what is to become of all the items being tucked away. With strong yet understated performances, artfully chiaroscuro-laden shots, and a script that is both compelling and smart, "Second Life..." nicely epitomizes what a short film can be at its best: a perfectly rendered cinematic moment.

Finally, after a somewhat bewildering encounter with Faye Dunaway in the women's bathroom at the AMC/Loews Village VII Theater, I settled into the last screening of the night, The Auteur, by Portland, Oregon-based filmmaker, James Westby. Part silly romantic comedy, part raunchy satire, Auteur delves hilariously into the world of pornographic films, featuring actor Melik Malkasian as the self-proclaimed auteur of porn, Italian director Arturo Domingo. As Domingo's celebrity fades into oblivion, his former collaborator and star, Frank Normo, ascends to pseudo-superstardom with his own X-rated reality TV show entitled, Let's Get F*cked! When Domingo travels to Portland to appear as a special guest at a retrospective of his own ouevre, the auteur suddenly finds himself waxing philosophical and longs to reunite with his former love, the beautiful Fiona (played by the fetching Katie Flynn).

Worth noting: More than a simple, gross-out raunch-fest, The Auteur ingeniously parodies such screen classics as Apocalypse Now, My Left Foot, and Requiem for a Dream as well as skewers the pretension behind high art cinema and the Hollywood machine.

Tribeca Film Festival 2008 - Days Three and Four

Apologies, apologies. This year's Tribeca Film Fest trailers (which screen before each and every show) ask audiences, "Are you a film junkie?" And, alas, I remorsefully confess-- it would appear that indeed I am. Over the course of the last two days, I have seen eight films; and I have not yet written about a single one of them yet! I think it safe to say that at this point my brain is technically broken, swimming in a daze of cinema overload inside my skull; and so it's a wonder that I am even coherent enough to write these sentences you are reading now.

Let's just get into it. And please do forgive the paucity of the following reviews. There are eight of them after all.

Saturday morning, I ran breathlessly into the Cinema Village East theater at 12th St. and Second Ave. to just barely make the beginning of the new Merchant Ivory period piece (do they make any other kind of movie?), Before the Rains. Lushly filmed, sultry in its treatment of South Asian culture and feminine sexuality, the film is in fact an interesting exercise in allegorical story-telling as well as a new twist on Orientalist and post-colonial narratives.

Traditionally, Orientalist stories have always played out as tragedies, historically using the white explorer or adventurer as the focalizing perspective within the narrative while "non-white" peoples have always been Othered by default. The most typical of patterns dictates that this white hero (or sometimes heroine) ventures into the strange and exotic lands of depressed peoples in order to bring them culture, civilization, or religion and, in the course of doing so, falls in love with one of the natives. The romance then results in death or at best a bittersweet adieu, and the story ends there. (A few shining examples: Madame Butterfly; The Toll of the Sea; The World of Suzie Wong; The King and I; South Pacific; Zou Zou; and Princess Tam Tam... even King Kong, if you subscribe to most Black film theory.) Because institutionalized racism was still so overtly present during Hollywood's silent and Golden ages, miscegenation was actually forbidden in many storylines; and thus a tragic ending was all but assumed, or else studios risked having an entire production shut down or simply banned from being shown to audiences. Director Santosh Sivan's newest film picks up the reigns where traditional Hollywood left off and uses the conventions of Orientalist tradition to subvert the paradigm described above.

In Before the Rains, the role of the white explorer figure is played by the character, British exporter, Henry Moores. It is 1937, India, and Moores (played by Linus Roache) has begun a tempestuous affair with his Indian house servant, Sajani (played by Nandita Das). The only witness to the affair is Moores' faithful aide, T.K. (played by Rahul Bose), a young Indian man from the same village as Sajani, who has studied English texts and aspires to one day succeed and be esteemed by those in the world to which Moores has exposed him through a Western education. As one would expect, tragedy befalls these star-crossed lovers. Spoiler alert: one of them dies. However, unlike most other traditional texts, the death occurs only mid-way through the story. As the surrounding communities-- both Sajani's tribe and Moore's business associates-- investigate what appears to be a cold-blooded murder, the narrative becomes more than a psychologically driven drama, but a metaphor for the greater social movement that serves as a backdrop to the story: India's struggle for independence from British colonial rule. As T.K. is forced to eventually choose between the master who has treated him so well and his own repressed people, it becomes clear that the violent death at the story's heart is not simply that of one person's, but potentially that of an entire nation.

The other films I watched on Saturday all proved to be just as international in scope as well as transgressive in terms of their subject matter:

Gini Reticker's inspiring documentary, Pray the Devil Back to Hell, gives the viewer an inside look at the Liberian women's peace movement during the 1990s, a herculean and, in some ways, miraculous effort enacted solely by Liberian women that finally brought an end to the war and utter chaos that reigned supreme during President Charles Taylor's military regime. In parts horrific, in other parts funny and simultaneously poignant, this film is one of the more extraordinary stories to come out of the festival this year.

Worth noting: without the women's peace movement, Liberia might never have elected its first female president, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf-- or even had those elections which she won to begin with.

Three Kingdoms: Resurrection of the Dragon, directed by filmmaker Daniel Lee, is the latest Chinese spectacular epic to feature mind-blowing fight scenes (both between one-on-one combatants as well as between warring armies on horseback). Based on an ancient Chinese legend, the story centers around one military hero who strives his entire life to serve his emperor in the virtuous effort to unify the three greatest Chinese kingdoms, only to find in the end that his career of successful military campaigns has been all for naught. Chinese cinema enthusiasts can anticipate the usual bevy of flash pans and zip zooms that so characterize this type of film coupled with the latest trends in digital filmmaking a la sword-and-sandal epics like 300 and Troy.

Worth noting: a beautiful Maggie Q gives a fiercely chilling and formidable performance as one of the most badass fighters and military generals in recent cinematic memory.

In Strangers, directed by Erez Tadmor and Guy Nattiv, a self-exiled Palestinian woman who has been living in France, Rana, falls in love with an Israeli man, Eyal, when they meet in Berlin during the World Cup finals. The story initially proceeds predictably enough, following the trajectory of most Hollywood romances wherein the two leads meet by chance and, through a series of coincidental mishaps, get thrown together into a precarious situation that necessitates their constant being together. However, the film's similarity to most conventional romances ends there. If ever there was a love story that seemed inevitably doomed, it is the one shared by Rana (played by the luminous Lubna Aazabal) and Eyal (sensitively portrayed by Liron Levo). When the two must suddenly part ways, it becomes clear that neither one is capable of simply forgetting the other. But, when the Isreali army invades Lebanon a couple of months later, emotions explode, and the couple must face a difficult choice: break off the relationship for good or continue to fight an uphill battle in simply loving one another.

The film's look incorporates a lot of handheld and steadicam digital photography, as well as hearkens back to more retro editing techniques such as a split-screen to illustrate the similarities between what would otherwise appear to be two completely different people. Though the film's overt politicism makes it feel a bit heavy-handed in parts, at its heart, the story is a plea for reconciliation, an expression of a younger generation of Israelis and Palestinians who simply want peace and desperately want to live their lives without war.

Worth noting: while Azabal may have won the Wolgin Award for "Most Promising Actress" at last year's Jerusalem Film Festival, it is in fact Levo who lights up the screen with his warm physical presence and understated acting style.

The final film I watched on Saturday is the quirky new documentary by Iranian Australian filmmaker Faramarz K-Rahber, Donkey in Lahore. The film chronicles the real-life journey of Brian, an Australian, ex-goth puppeteer who has converted to Islam for the traditional Muslim girl, Amber, with whom he fell in love during a brief visit to Pakistan. As both Brian's and Amber's cultures collide, one watches dubiously as the couple struggles to stay together amidst poor communication via the telephone and e-mail, Brian's borderline personality disorder, chronic financial troubles, and endless red tape as Brian desperately tries to file the necessary paperwork to obtain a visa for his fiancee. The film is simply too long, at times feeling self-indulgent, long-winded; and though the journey is unique, K-Rahber spends far too much time chronicling some of the minute details in Brian's and Amber's relationship that are simply not worth relating in a feature-length movie. Perhaps with some more shrewd editing, the film can be cut down to a more palatable length (it currently runs 117 minutes). For the sake of the story, which is indeed interesting, one prays that K-Rahber will be more discerning in the editing booth in the weeks and months to come.

Worth noting: as I mention above, until this film is pared down to a more manageable length, Donkey in Lahore may prove to be too long-winded and meandering for some (ok, most).

~~~~~~~

On Sunday, I began the day by watching the lovely and beautiful documentary by filmmaker Engi Wassef, Marina of the Zabbaleen. An alum of last year's Tribeca All Access program, Marina is a strictly verite look at the lives of one family who belong to the Zabbaleen, a sect of outcasts in Egyptian society who have been relegated to being garbage-pickers in the streets of Cairo. Day by day, the Zabbaleen eke out a living, sorting through tons of recyclable material as well as rotting food, medical and industrial waste, and miscellaneous other garbage. At the heart of the film is six-year-old Marina, an innocent and sweet-natured girl with captivating brown eyes who aspires to one day be a doctor. With virtually no voiceover narration of which to speak, the film is nevertheless a fascinating look into the day to day lives of a people who have long been purposefully silenced. Marina of the Zabbaleen finally gives them a voice with which to bring their story to the rest of the world.

Worth noting: Wassef's painterly visual style is well-crafted as the camera dotes lovingly on the little girl, Marina, whose own day-to-day dramas are as intriguing as the larger portrait of modern Egyptian society presented in the film.

After glimpsing into the world of the Zabbaleen, I next delved into the fictional world of Mexican director Alfonso Pineda-Ulloa's sexual thriller, Love, Pain & Vice Versa. Night after exhausting night, a woman, Chelo (played by Barbara Mori of La Mujer de Mi Hermano), dreams of a handsome and mysterious man with whom she is completely in love. Determined to actually find this man in real life, she devises a scheme that involves the police. However, when things do not go according to plan, she finds her nightly visits by her mysterious lover turning into a series of foreboding nightmares that eventually begin to bleed into her waking life. A strictly commercial affair, Love, Pain & Vice Versa is a new brand of Mexican cinema that seems to emulate the Hollywood aesthetic, unfettered by any of the deeply philosophical or political musings that have so characterized most films from Latin and South America in the past. It has yet to be determined in this blogger's mind whether or not it's a trend worth following.

Worth noting: the film actually includes a scene of someone fully clothed, crying in the shower. A true "for real???" moment. Talk about copying Hollywood conventions...

The day ended with a program entitled, Split Second: a collection of short films that all revolve around the theme of having everything change at a sudden moment's notice. It was the first program of shorts I had gotten to catch at the festival, and, to be honest, my expectations were not especially high. Shorts, even when they have been done well, have only ever mildly affected me at best. Mildly amused, mildly moved. And last year's shorts at Tribeca (I saw a least a couple dozen of them) left me feeling mildly... mild. Neither here nor there. Which, in my opinion, was a shame, since it is these shorts that have so much riding on them; they are the calling cards of many an unknown filmmaker, perhaps the only opportunity many of them will ever have to get noticed within the larger marketplace and hopefully get a job. So I went into Split Second hoping to be blown away, but not counting on it.

I was.

Nearly every film in the program had a significant and satisfying amount of gravitas without being especially heavy-handed-- no small feat for any work that falls somewhere within the 10 to 20 minute range. However, the one film that has stayed with me since-- actually affected me so deeply as to move me to tears-- and will continue to haunt me for a long time to come is director Mark V. Reyes' 17 minute short, "God Only Knows." The film focuses on Maria, a single mother torn between her love for her 10-year-old son, Santiago, and the opportunity to provide him with a better life. When she makes a decision to alter the course of their future forever, the results are devastating. Reyes' images are beautifully rendered; his leading lady, Angel Aquino's face is impossibly beautiful on screen; and the story at the film's heart unforgettable. Reyes is an exceptionally gifted auteur for whom I hope many good things in the industry come.

Ebertfest: Day 4

Ang Lee arrived with a fresh print of his 2003 film Hulk on Saturday, April 26--the fourth day of Ebertfest. It was a fast and fresh start to the penultimate day of the fest, on which the many cups of coffee and wine imbibed over the past few days began to finally catch up with us. One must look into a "recovery week" filled with yoga sessions and juice cleanses to return the physical body to its normal state in the wake of a film festival (and this one was only 5 days!) I'm sure Karen Wang, currently in Tribeca Film Fest overdose/comatose will share a similar sentiment in this matter.



But back to Ang Lee and Hulk (2003), a fine, bubbly print that made me love the movie all over again for the first time. I was also in a minority when the film was released 5 years ago; it was widely panned by critics and audiences at the time, though I found its use of split screen, a style that mimics the very comic book cells in which the ghastly green freak-out came to be known, both effective and stylish. This time around I noticed the acting much more, from Josh Lucas's character Talbot and the supremely underrated Nick Nolte, in his portrayal of Bruce Banner's father. (I had a chance to see Off the Black (2006) last year, where it became plain to see Nolte is one of the greatest living actors.) His final monologue near the very end of Hulk is stunning and frightening to say the least.

Israeli director Eran Kolirin arrived with his first feature that was infamously snubbed at this year's Oscars, The Band's Visit. I love this movie for its gentle look at a chance friendship between Arab bandmates and the Israeli natives who host them for a night. The message is political but not didactic, despite the unbreakable tension between the two cultures in reality.

Bill Forsyth's Housekeeping (1987) was an eager and somewhat unsettling look at an all-women household in the 1950s, starring Christine Lahti. She plays the surrogate mother, Slyvie, to two teenage girls who've been abandoned by their real mother who commits suicide when they're young. Through a voice-over narrative, the now aged daughter Ruth, pieces together her family history via memory, without any tangible picture or document. Closure and definitiveness is underrated, but not in this movie.

And to make sure not one of us slept easy, director Tarsem Singh arrived with the first, and one of the most terrifying flicks of the new millennium, The Cell (2000). It's so scary I have nightmares when I'm awake!

Ebertfest: Day 3

The best thing that's happened to me in a movie theater in recent days, weeks and months happened last night while watching Paul Schrader's Mishima: A Life In Four Chapters (1985), the last show on Friday night, the third of Ebertfest 2008. Schrader brought his own 35mm print to share, one that had gone unseen for years, he says. A privilege on its own was to see the film, one that is otherwise unavailable (or currently out of print, at least) on DVD, but it was a small honor to see the director's own personal copy. The look of the film is decidedly 1980s, an era David Bordwell urged was the real second golden age of Hollywood (as opposed to '70s Hollywood). The colors had a certain texture on film that, accompanied by the alternately haunting and thrilling score by Philip Glass, made it seems like a strange breed between Lucas's THX 1138 (1971), Ozu's Tokyo Story (1953), a touch of Taxi Driver (1976) and anything '80s SciFi to the tune of a synthesized score.

The story is the fictionalized (and indeed Americanized) life of Japanese author Yukio Mishima (also based on his own novel), prefaced by a list of four chapters and further divided by titles of the authors' own novels within the narrative. The latter stories are enacted via stage sets, scenes imitating life taking the story out of real space and time; veritable references to the living mindscape of Mishima, with us, the viewers, constantly traversing the boundary between his imagination and reality.

The rumor was that Mishima is Schrader's favorite of his own films. It remained unconfirmed after Bordwell asked him. Suffice it to say, I think, it's one of his most personal.

Also screening yesterday was Jeff Nichols' Shotgun Stories (2007), a look at southern life and family rivalry highly reminiscent of David Gordon Green's films (the filmmakers went to school together); a beautiful print of Josef Von Sternberg's 1927 silent gangster pic Underworld, with orchestral accompaniment by the stunning Alloy Orchestra; and director Taggart Siegel's look at eclectic family farmer John Peterson on his northern Illinois farm in The Real Dirt on Farmer John (2005).

Also, patches of purple violets grow wild in Champaign-Urbana, thusly:

Tribeca Film Festival 2008 - Day Two

Another three movies and another industry party in, and this blogger is already pooped. (And there are still nine days of the festival left to go!)

Began with a late morning screening of the drama Quiet Chaos, by Italian filmmaker Antonello Grimaldi. Already knowing that the film is a character portrait of a recently widowed father grieving his late wife's death, I had a dreadful feeling walking into the theater that this might not in act have been the best way to start off the day (or any day for that matter, lest I harbored some unhealthy craving for melancholy). I was pleasantly surprised. Antonello has directed a piece that-- yes-- depicts a character who is going through pain; yet, the film is not weighed down by his pain but rather is buoyed by a uniquely modern and sometimes humorous exploration of that pain's various iterations. At the heart of the story is Pietro (played by a perfectly cast Nanni Moretti), whose pain is never expressly articulated, but whose soulful gaze and desperate longing to be near his young daughter Claudia (played by a delightfully precocious Blu Di Martino) betray a vast chasm that has ruptured the very fabric of Pietro's once complacent existence. Featuring songs from Radiohead's Amnesiac album as well as one or two ballads by Rufus Wainwright and Stars and an original score by Paolo Buonvino, the movie's well-balanced soundtrack also works to enhance the film's surprisingly contemporary feel.

Next up was the gritty, violent, and politically loaded thriller from Brazil, Elite Squad. Directed by Jose Padilha, the film may appear on its surface to be a simple shoot-em-up-bang-bang affair. Spoiler alert: the film is about the most elite of ranks within the Brazilian police force, the BOPE, whose sole purpose is to fight a war with the drug lords that rule Rio De Janeiro's numerous favelas (slums). The movie has guns. Lots of them. And, yes, people use them. However, just as its flashy, digital hand-held photography is reminscent of such films as City of God, Secuestro Express, and Towards Darkness, so is the film's story just as layered with moral ambiguities, controversial politics, and explosive acting.

One thing South American filmmakers (or artists in general) have never shied away from is dealing with difficult social, political, and economic issues in their work. Elite Squad is no exception; and it is also worth noting that the unfathomable number of difficulties Padilha's crew encountered during the shooting of this film make the very fact of the film's existence indeed miraculous. With mistrust on the part of the Brazilian police force, drug lords threatening to kill the production team (along with the director) practically every day, and a few crew members having even been kidnapped at one point, Elite Squad already defied the odds by virtue of its completion-- a triumph in itself for Padilha. Nevertheless, its value to the world of cinema was affirmed at this year's Berlin Film Festival where the movie took home the fest's main prize, the Golden Bear.

Finally, the day's screenings ended with Shane Meadows' new drama/comedy, Somers Town. Shot in black and white, Somers Town is at times reminiscent of Kevin Smith's Clerks in that it creates intimately unique and quirky character portraits, features carefully composed stationary shots, and touts a simple yet compelling storyline. Much in the same way that French New Wave director Francois Truffaut adopted a young Jean-Pierre Leaud to play his alter-ego, the fictional character Antoine Doinel, in a number of his films, so has Meadows appeared to have begun a similar pattern with the young British actor Thomas Turgoose, who played Meadows' hero Shaun in last year's poignant breakout hit, This Is England, and once again stars in Somers Town. Focusing his gaze upon the social situations that surround a disenfranchised youth in Great Britain, Meadows ' new drama is about two unlikely friends-- Tomo (Turgoose), a sixteen-year-old runaway from the Midlands, and Marek (played by Piotr Jagiello), a Polish teenage immigrant who lives with his construction worker father. Together, the hilarious duo cavort around London aimlessly, vie like silly puppies for the affections of the same French girl, and come closer to realizing their impending adulthood as the days of "just being boys" slowly fades with the summer days.

After three straight screenings, I was ready for a party. And so, that night I headed off with my friend Emily to the Tribeca All Access Awards celebration, which was being thrown at Buddakan, located at 16th Street and Ninth Ave. As we descended the famed restaurant's central staircase, the party was already in full swing. Beneath glittering gold and crystal chandeliers, a pumping DJ table, and through a labarynthine route of dimly lit hallways flanked by plush leather booths, this year's TAA filmmakers, alum, and various other "fancy" industry types were getting their groove on to such old school favorites as Prince's Purple Rain, Michael Jackson's Thriller album, and- my jam- Salt-n-Pepa's "Push It" (natch!). As the party easily passed the 11 o'clock hour (when it was officially supposed to end), the restaurant staff clearly began to bristle. The crowd eventually began to thin out a little by midnight, and by 1 am, some of the servers were simply sitting on tables waiting for it all to end. It was at that point that I called it quits and gratefully traipsed my way back home.

Live From Ebertfest: Day 2

Greetings, once again from Urbana, Illinois in the mid-morning hours following day 2 of Ebertfest! Coffee in me, I'm ready to dish.



That's the Virginia Theater, headquarters for all screenings, lunch meetings and pre-show lectures. Outside are a few white tents that sell barbecued food to festival patrons between shows. Just inside the theater doors to the left is a room hawking Ebertfest t-shirts, any book Ebert has ever had published and coffee for a dollar a cup. Inside the theater itself you observe the convenient ritual of reserved seats marked by unfolded scarves stretched across a portion of a row. And you can leave them there, they'll be undisturbed by ushers and single ticket-holders searching for a spot in the front row. Coming in from Chicago myself, and my companion Camille, in from L.A., we do forget momentarily that it's okay to leave our belongings behind without the worry of their theft. Also, strangers smile at you on the street here, and get chatty in the queue for the restroom. Ebertfest might be renamed "friendlyfest."

Chaz Ebert, aka Mrs. Roger Ebert is here to introduce each film because Roger broke his hip a few days before the festival, and is subsequently held back in a Florida facility where he's recovering. David Bordwell led a chant, "Get--Well--Ebert!" on day one, and Chaz sometimes speaks with restrained tears speaking of her husband. She is the festival's center of gravity. Meandering on and off the stage, sometimes leaving the mic absent at the podium, always smiling, always acknowledging the audience in remote sections of the theater; she's her own one-woman Altman-esque show a la A Prairie Home Companion.

So in the front left section we were camped out at the theater yesterday for four movies: Tom DiCillo's Delirious (2006), Sally Potter's Yes (2004), and a short double-feature of Citizen Cohl: The Untold Story (a tribute video to the late Toronto Film Fest founder, Dusty Cohl) and Canvas (2006). Each film had it's merits, but Potter's Yes was operating on a different level, artistically, socially and politically; it's a film inspired in the months immediately following 9/11 that touches a raw nerve in its examination of interracial and gender relations. Joan Allen gives us a flooring performance.

Off I go for now. Today's schedule has a big 5-hour break between afternoon films, so I'll be back then with more. Stay tuned!

Tribeca Film Festival 2008 - Day One

Concurrent to the 10th annual Ebertfest, which is being covered by our own Pamela Kerpius this week, the seventh annual Tribeca Film Festival had its first full day of screenings today.

Just got back from a crazy industry party at the Apple Store in SoHo, where nearly everyone was (as my friend Eric noted) "at least better than average-looking just to get in" and "had lots of money." My favorite quote of the night was when Eric summarily described the place as being filled with "a lot of fancy nobodies." Quite right, I thought.

But aside from the glitzy schmoozing and the beautiful women grinding against some not-so-beautiful men, my first day on the scene was marked by some truly remarkable films!

First screening of the day: the gorgeous documentary by British filmmaker James Marsh, entitled, Man On Wire. The title refers to the brief description that was scrawled onto a police report when French daredevil Philippe Petit was arrested by the New York City police in August of 1974 for sneaking an entire crew of friends into the World Trade Center towers one night, rigging hundreds of pounds of cables across the expanse from one roof to the other, and then proceeded to astound, shock, and genuinely awe an entire city by tightrope-walking ("dancing" would be more accurate) from one rooftop to the other for a breathtaking and uninterrupted 45 minutes. The story is told from the perspective of Petit himself as well as those of his friends who helped him to pull off this monumental and unbelievable feat. Coupled with a few understated black and white reenactments along with a significant amount of archival footage, Man On Wire is by far one of the more visually stunning, thrilling, and moving films yours truly has seen in quite some time. Complemented by an original score by Michael Nyman as well as a few classic pieces by the French composers Yann Tiersen and Erik Satie, the images that Marsh has culled together from Petit's eccentrically beautiful life and presents to the viewer is nothing short of incredible.

Truly. There were moments when I could not believe my eyes and that the images I was seeing were not in fact tricks of the camera.

After running out to grab a soggy and underwhelming pasta salad from a nearby cafe, I ducked into another screening: the internationally critically acclaimed Katyn, by legendary Polish filmmaker Andrzej Wajda. Beautifully composed, yet suffering from a scattered and somewhat rushed script that involves a matrix of different characters who haphazardly weave in and out of the story line, the film focuses upon a mass murder of Polish army officers and civilians committed by the Soviet Red Army in 1940. While all the actors' performances are nuanced and true; the camera work virtuosic; and the sets, costumes and art design flawless, the film carries such historical and cultural resonance for the Polish nation especially, that I admittedly found it difficult at times to remain fully engaged and emotionally invested. Wajda slowly and methodically paints a portrait of the survivors in both the years leading up to and following the massacre, eventually directing the structure of the film towards showing the actual horrors of a day on which hundreds of POWs were murdered. Ironically, I found not these gruesome depictions of carnal destruction to be the most chilling and powerful elements of the film, but rather, the serenade of an all male chorus upon the fade-out of the film's final image-- an aural experience which is simply extraordinary.

The last film of the day was veteran documentary filmmaker and NY Times blogger Errol Morris' Standard Operating Procedure, which takes a close look at the American officers who were convicted of committing criminal acts by torturing the prisoners in the Iraqi prison at Abu Ghraib. With Philip Glass notably absent from the score, Danny Elfman's bells-laden music contracted to take Glass' place, a plethora of both archival as well as over-the-top reenacted scenes from the prison, and plenty of talking heads, SOP is certainly a mixed bag of cinematic pluses and minuses. Nevertheless, the one thing it does do exceptionally well is raise some interesting questions. Wisely abstaining from drawing any real conclusions that may unilaterally damn the military (although the film certainly does place blame upon the highest levels of military command originating from the Pentagon), SOP explores the issue of still photography being a reliable source-- in this case the only evidence the U.S. government had in order to convict military officers of criminal acts. The film also gives the viewer a clearer and more complete picture of the conditions that surrounded the convicted officers at Abu Ghraib, which seriously calls into question many of the preconceived notions that we Americans may or may not have had about the matter when the story of torture by American soldiers first broke in the news. The screening was followed by a Q & A with Morris, moderated by Anthony Swoffer (who wrote the book Jarhead, upon which the 2005 movie of the same name was based).

All in all, a very full first day indeed. Stay tuned to Scarlett as I continue to chronicle my journey through the next week and a half at the seventh annual Tribeca Film Festival!

Live From Ebertfest!

Live from Champaign-Urbana, Illinois, it's the 10th Annual Ebertfest!


I greet you in the morning hours with a giant cup of coffee (huge!) after the first screening of the festival of overlooked films, per the indispensable critic, Roger Ebert. Kicking things off was Kenneth Branagh's Hamlet (1996), a 4-hour masterpiece of one 360-degree shot after another amidst one of the most elaborate sets, reminiscent of Sokurov's Hermitage museum tour in Russian Ark (2002). That's a nice way to compare Ken Bran's Hamlet, because there are an unexpected number of long-takes, some of which encompass whole scenes. Six, 7 and 8-minute shots are the norm. Add to it that the main set piece has two dual walls of mirrors, and you can imagine the level of choreography both the actors and crew had to perfect to make the shots work. Also, it was shot on 65mm and presented (as it was last night) on 70mm. I dare say I've seen a bigger image on screen before! Quite sublime, if I may say so.

Celebrity film historian and scholar David Bordwell introduced and helped conduct discussion with visiting actors Timothy Spall (played Rosencrantz) and Rufus Sewell (played Fortinbras), both of whom flew all the way from the UK to grace the audience.

Off I must go for now (my meter time is up and my coffee gone). More updates as the festival progresses!

Movies of Shame Monday: "I intend to make the best of things, even if they are Yankee things"--Scarlett O'Hara

My name is Mara and I have a confession to make. I had never seen Gone with the Wind (V.Fleming, G. Cukor and others uncredited 1939). How, you might ask, could this self-avowed cinephile possibly omit this consecrated classic from her viewing repertoire?

Shame shame shame. . .

I know. And I have no excuse other that for some strange reason, I had unwittingly in the last few years developed a mild aversion to the film, or rather to my own idea of the film. I’ll explain. My first reference of the film came by way of my twin sister, who was (she claims) “forced” to watch it for a class. Traumatized by the unanticipated length of the film, and by what she deemed sickeningly corny scenes, she sought to exorcise all memory of the experience by repeatedly blurting out and grossly parodying Scarlett O’Hara’s dialogue: Aaaahshleeeeey, ooooh Ashleeeey! Perhaps my sister’s annoyance was contagious, or perhaps I was doubly annoyed by her own annoying and repetitive performance of this single line of dialogue. In any case, my brain had absorbed this information and shaped its own fantasy of what the film was about. In my mind, the scene (and much of the film’s plot) revolved around two sisters, one named Ashley who had somehow wronged the desperate Scarlett. The sisters were fighting over some charming lad (at the time, I was much drawn to experimental and queer cinema, and thought I wasn’t going to waste my time with another heterosexual tragedy). This made it easy to continue to avoid watching the film. However, I admit, it was certainly not easy to hide the embarrassing truth of my ignorance from my peers.

At first I developed a contingency plan-- in case I got asked a detailed question about the film, I would say that I had unfortunately never seen the classic film because, growing up in Mexico, American products such as movies, were not readily available (people rarely question such claims about growing up in foreign lands). It was a big fat lie (though granted, I did grow up before NAFTA), plus I was already living in the U.S. (where without question movies were readily available). My second excuse, I determined, would be to dismiss the question with an expression of disbelief accompanied by a film buff proclamation: “I don’t watch Technicolor on video!” On other occasions, the film was brought up, as it often is, in the form of a choice between x and y (e.g. what do you like best, Gone with the Wind or Casablanca). In such cases, I would assert my preference for Casablanca, hoping the sheer confidence of my words would dispel all doubts about my cinephilic worth and knowledge of the classic film canon. Yesterday I put an end to my shame and let 233 minutes fill the gaping hole in my viewing repertoire.

Though I am still digesting the effects of its exuberant cinematography and the film’s (welcome) ostentation (in everything from staging, to acting, sound design)--the makes of an extraordinary melodrama, and a wealth of material for future recuperation in camp-- I am particularly struck by one perhaps minor aspect of the film, but which has me thinking about viewing practices more generally. This is in short the disciplining of the viewer that is inherent in the very presentation of the film: the inter-titles that punctuate the film, including the overture intermission, and exit music. I thought about how GWTW flaunts its grandeur partly in exercising this subtle but effective disciplining/regulation of our bodies (in being made to sit through 3 or 4 minutes of an intertitle, calculating the “necessary” time to shift gears from first half to the next, etc.), and also about how the eventfulness of viewing a film like this is just lost with the compartmentalization and decentralization of film formats/distribution (my 12inch portable laptop screen, and available menu controls, certainly shrink the grandeur of the film and allow me to side-step the requisite pauses of the intertitles). But the film’s gesture to “make me sit still” felt like a strange type of violence.

. . .Which leads to the next aspect that struck me: violence and its multivalent articulation, including the war (physical danger as well as violent assault to social institutions, family, marriage, class,etc), sex (the “seduction scene” where drunk Rhett Butler sweeps Scarlett up the stairs presumably to “forcibly” make love to her, the horror of birthing babies, etc), the novel/film’s much reviled racism; and the arguably more intriguing violence, which is in some ways also challenge to conventional forms of femininity. Though posited as opposites, benevolent Melanie (de Havilland) and the cunning self-assertive/self-obsessed Scarlett, have a unique relationship to violence, a uniquely polite complicity which has little to do with tragedy. . .Particularly in an age where women's relationship to violence is exhaustively represented as an inevitable tragedy (and I am also thinking broadly about images of female "terrorists" vs. male "terrorists), GWTW's ladies' handling of intruders, of war, and of family constitute a productively perverse scenario. (I am still wrapping my thoughts around it. . .)

“Will you hand me the pistol please Mrs. Meade”
---Melanie Hamilton to Mrs. Meade

The Queen Will Get Back to You

In an effort to address pervasive racial stereotypes about Arabs as well as edify the sadly ill-informed, Queen Rania Al Abdullah of Jordan has put out an open call for the public to send her questions and common stereotypes about the Arab world via YouTube. She will be accepting and try to address all of these questions and stereotypes through August 12th, which is International Youth Day.

Kudos to a strong and fair-minded woman who is striving to bridge cultural gaps as well as eradicate the ignorance that plagues much of America (and the Western world!).

Movies of Shame Monday: "You've Never Seen What!?"

"Help, help, I'm being repressed!"



Hello, my name is Pamela and I've never seen Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
That poster above is apparently from a 2001 re-release of Terry Gilliam's holy grail of comedies, exclaiming, "Like You've Never Seen Or Heard It Before!"

How did they know?

Rest easy. As of yesterday, Sunday, April 13, 2008, I, Pamela Kerpius, finally have viewed this movie. And what a relief to clear the air!

How long Karen has kept her secret of never having seen the gold standard in 70s American cinema, The Godfather, until last Monday; or myself, deprived of what is clearly one of the finest and funniest comedies ever put on film. How long we've lived with such shame!

The damning question that probably any student, critic or scholar of cinema hears from the lay-film buff or aficionado upon the shocking revelation that you (of all people) have not seen their favorite movie more than any other is surely, "You're a film person and you've never seen insert film title here?!!" Or as The Onion cleverly put it a few months ago, "You've Never Seen Every Movie Ever Made?!" Granted, those movies in question are usually lame ones. My parents are wont to convince me, for example, that Sister Act (1992) is a cinematic gem; and my dear brother-in-law adamantly insists that Cinema Paradiso (1988) is a must for any Best Of movie list. (My favorite of these encounters, though, is from an old college pal who stubbornly claimed that Joel Schumacher's Falling Down (1993) was a better film than Martin Scorsese's Taxi Driver (1976). The audacity!)

But my Movie of Shame is nonesuch movie. Mine actually is one of the "Best" (at least in the comedy genre) movies ever made.

Pride swallowed.

But now, however, total delight has washed over me: I love this movie! A summary of the story would be pointless at this juncture--you all already know what this movie is (a parody of British lore), who's in it (John Cleese, Michael Palin, Eric Idle, et. al) and all of its one-liners (see above); what is new to me is age-old to all of you. I just can't wait to see it again. And I liked the little quote from a Boston Herald review on the DVD booklet, "An inexhaustible source of joy!"

---------

In a related story, I saw Marcel Carne's wonderful Les Enfants du paradis (1945) for the first time two weeks ago. I might be the best movie I've ever seen.

Flight of the Conchords (2007)

I'm a little slow on the cable TV uptake. That's because I don't actually have cable TV. Though I do have a DVD player, which has enabled me to watch the first season of HBO's Flight of the Conchords at my own leisure, vengefully skipping forward through the preview promotions at the front of the disk (ah-ha!), and deep into the comic dynamic of the show's leading stars, Bret McKenzie and Jemaine Clement. They are the two poor fellows embarking on a folk music career in the Big Apple after migrating from their native New Zealand. Those swinging accents from down under make them awfully charming, though it's their tenderhearted dude humor that is the icing on the cake--and indeed the cake itself.

Think of David Wain, Michael Ian Black and Michael Showalter's underrated Comedy Central show Stella (2005) with a heaping portion of Ricky Gervais's influence from The Office (BBC) and you'll get a warm idea of their comedy. Like Stella, the characters who are both caricatures of themselves and named after their real-life selves, Bret and Jemaine, bounce around the streets of neighborhoods that higher-budget shows purposely avoid. The scuzzier edges of Williamsburg, Brooklyn under the glow of neon 99-cent store fronts and the Marcy Avenue J/M/Z subway stop, are the stomping grounds for their musical interludes that riff on "inner city pressure" to the beat of The Pet Shop Boys' '80s pop hit "West End Boys."

Bret and Jemaine's schtick is to crack us up while in song, which is wholly successful because they never take the sentiment that inspires those songs too seriously. Waxing romantic on the idea of love and diversity they sing of multi-colored paper dolls: "Brown paper, white paper/stick 'em together with the tape of love," and Bret bellows, "Sticky stuff!" To do it justice with written description, I cannot. Instead, see below:

Movies of Shame Monday: "You've Never Seen What!?"

At a recent Spirit Awards screening of Francis Ford Coppola's newest film, the long and meandering, beautifully shot, yet mind-numbingly self-indulgent Youth Without Youth, I was compelled to reflect upon my somewhat tenuous relationship with Coppola's ouevre up to that point. Regarded by all as one of the masters of American cinema, canonized by the academe, critics, and fans alike for his legendary films, I admit that upon approaching his work for the first time as a teenager, the sheer weight of his reputation alone seemed almost too great to wrap one's head around. By the time I was old enough to even comprehend Coppola's importance as a director, it felt as if I had already missed the boat; nearly everyone I knew had already seen his films and were informed by their legacies within American popular culture.

Hence, my deepest, darkest secret began to take root during my college years, all the while festering and nagging at the back of my mind as I conversed with fellow cinephiles and tried to effect an air of insouciance. The problem only worsened as I entered graduate school to study cinema formally. I could not shake the feeling of being a fraud; and fear of being "outed" for my ignorance somehow only aggravated my sense of supreme procrastination. I mean, if Coppola’s Dracula and the afore-mentioned Youth Without Youth were any indication of what I had to look forward to, then why would I bother putting myself through that kind of torture again?

Yet, I had to make my confession eventually.

"I've never seen The Godfather," I intoned to Pamela over the phone one night.

There was a considerable pause.

"Wow," she finally said. "That's really shocking. You have to write about that."

And so I am.

Now, please don't think me a complete ignoramus. I had seen parts of the film here and there. And besides, it is virtually impossible to live in today's modern society without being familiar in some way with The Godfather: the horse scene (which recently inspired an Audi commercial during this year's Superbowl program); the unforgettable score by Nino Rota (which can be heard being played by a busker on any given night somewhere in the streets of New York); the iconic image of Marlon Brando decked out as Don Corleone on his daughter's wedding day (which has been replicated as well as spoofed by too many films and television shows to count). In fact, one of my all-time favorite comedies is the Godfather send-up, The Freshman, which stars a still-young, post-Bueller Matthew Broderick as well as Brando himself in a role that both parodies and deconstructs his alter-ego Corleone. However, inexplicably, it just never happened that I managed to catch the entire 3-hour first installment of the Corleone saga. Until last night.

Because there has already been so much written about The Godfather and its impact upon film history, I wouldn't dare to presume that a post on our humble blog could add significantly to the body of literature that already exists on the subject. However, because it is such an important work, I think it is certainly still worth relating to readers the impressions of someone who has only watched the film for the very first time-- perhaps as a means to remind ourselves of why the movie was such a sensation when it was released into theaters in 1972.

I was immediately struck by the film’s opening credits over black, serenaded by Rota’s haunting theme played by a ghostly and silver-toned trumpet: a simple collusion of graphics and music to create a beginning that could be described as at once both stark and epic. Fade in to Coppola’s opening shot, an extreme close-up of the face of Bonasera, the undertaker, who has come to the Godfather to ask for his help. As the camera gradually zooms out, Bonasera’s story paradoxically pulls the viewer deeper into the film’s narrative. His earnest plea to the Godfather is more than a simple request for services; it is the story of all immigrants and minorities alike who have been similarly disenfranchised and marginalized by an intolerant society. Speaking to themes of injustice, retribution, and cultural identity, Bonasera relates to the camera how his daughter was beaten to the point of disfigurement and then humiliated when her assailants were brought to trial, only to be acquitted by an indifferent judge. His tale is nothing less than an indictment of the American justice system and thus, we are presented with the need for an alternative code of ethics.

Coppola’s deliberately slow zoom-out during Bonasera’s story is also extraordinary as a narrative device; it is how the film both introduces the audience to the Godfather as well as places the viewer inside the point of view of the Don himself. As Bonasera relates his daughter’s story, the frame widens ever more until finally it reveals the camera’s over-the-shoulder angle, filmed from behind Corleone as he listens intently to the undertaker’s predicament. Thus, if only for a second, the film identifies Corleone as one of us, an audience member, just as we are in turn positioned to identify with him. The scene then immediately cuts to the now famous close-up shot of Corleone sitting at his desk, dressed in a tuxedo—an image of the Godfather at his most powerful. The shot is then mirrored later on in the film, when Corleone’s son, Michael (Al Pacino), devises a plan to kill his father’s would-be assassins. As the camera slowly dollies in to a tight close-up of Michael’s face, Coppola is clearly signaling to the audience that this is a critical juncture in the story: not only has Michael been transformed from a cautious observer into a participant in his father’s business activities, but in essence he has become the group’s newly christened leader-- the next Godfather. The moment is both visually arresting as well as dramatically important.

With an unbelievable cast (go head, crucify me: I didn't know that a fresh-faced Diane Keaton, James Caan, Robert Duvall, Alex Rocco-- who stars in the Audi commercial, and Abe Vigoda all starred in the film), an emotionally resonant script, a genius score, and indeed masterful camera work and direction, The Godfather most definitely did not disappoint. Now on to parts II and III...

Charlton Heston has passed away

"You damned, dirty apes!"

"Let my people go!"

"From my cold, dead hands..."

These, among others, are a few of the most famous quotes ever uttered in cinematic history. Yet, perhaps even more legendary than the words themselves were their on-screen, iron-jawed deliveries, each formidable, booming syllable rising from the depths of Charlton Heston's lean and muscular physique. An icon of Golden Age Hollywood, Heston was best known for playing heroic or larger-than-life characters: Moses in Cecil B. DeMille's The Ten Commandments; the title character in William Wyler's Ben-Hur; and time traveler George Taylor in the original sci-fi classic, Planet of the Apes. In recent decades, Heston's public image had become a thorny and certainly more complicated issue, as he had opposed the McCarthy-era witch hunts during the 1950s, worked for civil rights during the 1960s, and opposed the Vietnam War, but was portrayed in the media as an ultra-conservative from the 1980s onward. The once-president of the Screen Actors Guild as well as president of the National Rifle Association was positioned as the poster-child for a reckless and trigger-happy gun culture in Michael Moore's 2004 documentary, Farenheit 9/11. Nevertheless, his entire legacy within American film history is inarguably significant and one of the greatest an actor has left to date. He died last night in Beverly Hills at the age of 84.

Image: Courtesy of thelastoutpost.com.

The Last Supper with Battlestar Galactica

Soooo...please tell me you watched the final season premiere of Battlestar Galactica last night. You cannot possibly tell me you had a better plan than sitting at home and tuning into Sci Fi channel on a Friday night. If you haven't, you can watch the whole episode on SciFi.com. If you don't know what Battlestar Galactica is or haven't watched a single episode, please come back later. We can be friends again when you have at least watched the entire first season.

I won't ruin anything in terms of plots here - and yes, I realize this is a blog about films not TV - but I think BSG really deserves a place on Scarlett Cinema, especially because it features so many strong female characters. As I was ruminating upon last night's episode, I stumbled upon the photo above on SciFi.com, which is clearly a take on Leonardo Da Vinci's "Last Supper." While I am not sure it's a literal "apostle to BSG character" kind of an analogy, it is certainly fun to speculate, and overall effect is pretty intriguing, especially given the religious connotations in the storyline. Why, for instance, is Number Six in the same spot as Jesus? Is she a special cylon sent from the Gods (yes, plural)? Why does Chief have a dagger in his hand (Peter?), and is Lee Adama the "Judas" figure, seeing as he is the only one who has his elbow on the table, just like the original painting? And what about Natalie, the new model of Number Six, pointing an accusatory finger at her "predecessor" from the corner?

I don't really have answers to any of these, but on a lazy Saturday morning, what else do I have to do other than make random speculations about my favorite TV show ever? And next time you watch BSG, be sure to have some people over and make some BSG-inspired food.

Images: Courtesy of SciFi.com and Flickr.