8/1/15 (Part Two): Remember That One Time at Camp?

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A.D. Miles, Amy Poehler, Ben Weinstein, Bradley Cooper, camp counselors, Camp Firewood, Christopher Meloni, cinema, co-writers, comedies, coming of age, David Hyde Pierce, David Wain, Elizabeth Banks, ensemble cast, film reviews, films, Gideon Jacobs, H. Jon Benjamin, horny teenagers, inspired by '80s films, Janeane Garofalo, Joe Lo Truglio, Judah Friedlander, Ken Marino, Kevin Sussman, last day of camp, love triangle, Marguerite Moreau, Marisa Ryan, Michael Ian Black, Michael Showalter, Molly Shannon, Movies, musical numbers, Nina Hellman, one day, over-the-top, Paul Rudd, raunchy films, romances, set in 1980s, sex comedies, silly films, Skylab, summer camp, talent show, The State, Wet Hot American Summer, Whitney Vance, writer-director-actor, Zak Orth

How you approach, and ultimately enjoy, David Wain and Michael Showalter’s Wet Hot American Summer (2001) will probably depend on a few different variables: how you feel about ’80s teen sex comedies; how you feel about summer camp; how you feel about short-lived ’90s sketch-comedy troupe The State; how you feel about parodies of ’80s films, in general; and, perhaps most importantly, how you feel about silly movies. If any of the above set off the kind of drooling response that would put a smile on ol’ Pavlov’s face, the safe best is that you will, in all likelihood, absolutely love this giddy little ode to obliviously horny camp counselors, their perpetually hormone-ravaged young charges and the inherent insanity of Reagen-era America. If not…well…this is probably gonna be as much fun as getting hung from the flagpole by your tighty-whities. Let’s see which side of the line you end up on: fall in for roll call, campers!

It’s the last day of camp at Camp Firewood (August 18th, 1981, to be exact), which means exactly one thing: it’s also the last chance for everyone, counselor and camper alike, to have an exciting, life-changing summer romance. Good thing that hooking up happens to be everyone’s number one concern (the safety of youthful swimmers? Not so much.): there will be no shortage of star-crossed lovers, awkward triangles, odd pairings and horny virgins at this little summer soiree!

In short order, we’re introduced to a ridiculously diverse group of walking stereotypes and quirky characters, all of whom we’ll get to know much better over the course of the day/run-time. There’s Beth (Janeane Garofalo), the dour, “who gives a shit” camp director and Henry (David Hyde Pierce), the disgraced college professor (associate professor, to be exact) who has a summer home near the camp; counselors Andy (Paul Rudd), Coop (co-writer/creator Showalter) and Katie (Marguerite Moreau), who are involved in one of those aforementioned awkward love triangles and incredibly disturbed Vietnam vet/mess cook Gene (Christopher Meloni) and his put-upon assistant, Gary (A.D. Miles).

We also meet perpetually bawling arts-and-crafts instructor Gail (Molly Shannon), who’s constantly being counseled by her own pre-teen wards; walking hard-on/closet virgin Victor (Ken Merino) and his best friend, the impossibly geeky Neil (Joe Lo Truglio); Susie (Amy Poehler) and Ben (Bradley Cooper), the “perfect couple” who also serve as the camp’s directors/choreographers/entertainment personnel; voracious counselor Abby (Marisa Ryan), who pursues both peers and campers with equal aplomb; ditzy valley girl Lindsay (Elizabeth Banks) and McKinley (Michael Ian Black), the stylish guy who ends up capturing Ben’s eye. Don’t forget Steve (Kevin Sussman), the curious fellow who seems to think he’s a robot and ends up saving the entire camp by (literally) summoning rock ‘n roll salvation from the skies.

The film, itself, is merely an excuse for all of the above (and many, many more) to get into one hilarious, goofball, silly or outrageous situation after the next: romances are formed and broken (one character notes how they were “just friends” that morning but had already become “more” by noon, all on the way to falling out of love by the evening…not bad for one day!); friendships are tested; guys try (and often fail) to get the girl(s); Beth tries to keep the whole place running despite nearly constant stress (as if a raft full of kids in a dangerously turbulent river isn’t bad enough, Skylab is falling from space…right on top of their heads!); a can of vegetables speaks and sounds an awful lot like Mr. Archer himself, H. Jon Benjamin…you name it, it probably happens.

As befits a film that features quite a few sketch/improv comedians (out of eleven regular cast members from The State, six are featured here (Showalter, Wain, Merino, Truglio, Black and Kerri Kenney), while Shannon and Poehler got their starts on SNL), Wet Hot American Summer is a nearly nonstop barrage of gags, sexual innuendo, over-the-top characterizations and restless energy, all culminating in the kind of talent show set-piece that delivers as much as it promises (the Godspell bit, in particular, is priceless, especially when introduced by Poehler as “some people who suck dick”).

The point of the film, as with any comedic parody, is two-fold: poke fun at the original source – in this case, teen sex comedies like Meatballs (1979) and Porky’s (1982) – and entertain/amuse on its own merits. In both cases, Wain and Showalter acquit themselves much better than anyone might reasonably expect. As a 1980s parody, WHAS is spot-on, nailing not only the obvious mise-en-scene (plenty of butt-rock classics on the score, feathered hair and mullets, endless references to kitsch/catch-phrases/cultural ephemera) but also the themes, clichés and stereotypes that seemed to freely flow through many films (especially comedies) from that era. WHAS takes its ’80s-worship to pretty ridiculous heights (obviously) but that’s just what the material calls for (deserves?).

Even divorced from the ’80s parody aspects, WHAS is a complete blast from start to finish. Credit a clever script (the film is incredibly dumb but never stupid: there’s a huge difference) but don’t fail to give each and every member of the incredible ensemble cast their fair dues: to a tee, the group manage to build on each others’ performances, becoming something akin to the Voltron of silly comedies. It’s hard to pick out favorites here, although Merino is a constant delight as Victor (full disclosure: Merino has been one of my absolute favorite comedians for some time now) and Paul Rudd is impressively all-in as the temper tantrum-prone Andy. Garofalo does her patented combo of stressed-out/checked-out, while Shannon gets lots of great mileage out of the running gag involving her “road to recovery” via pre-teen psychotherapy.

Of an incredibly game cast, however, perhaps none are more so than Law & Order: SVU mainstay Meloni. Trading the brooding tough-guyisms of Elliot Stabler in for the ridiculously unhinged Gene is a nice move and one that would hint at Meloni’s post-SVU slide into sillier comedy versus gritty police procedural. There’s a night and day difference, here, and many of the film’s biggest, funniest scenes have Gene right at their wacko little hearts.

Perhaps due to my belief that the film was nothing more than a really dumb and cheap parody, I studiously avoided Wet Hot American Summer when it first appeared in 2001, even though I liked The State enough to catch the odd episode, here and there. This, of course, is why “assume” usually makes an ass of you and me: not only wasn’t WHAS the insipid, stupid film I assumed it was, it actually turned out to be one of the better, consistently funny and endearing comedies I’ve seen in several years.

In fact, I ended up liking the film so much that I eagerly plowed through the recently unveiled prequel TV series, Wet Hot American Summer: The First Day (2015), in what felt like one sitting. To my even greater surprise, the series actually manages to one-up the already impressive film, bringing back the majority of the cast (the first film’s unstated joke about 20-year-olds playing teens is even funnier when the cast is now nearly 15 years older and playing younger versions of themselves…the meta is strong with this one, indeed!), along with a raft of great newcomers including the likes of Michael Cera, Jason Schwartzman and several cast members from Mad Men. It adds nicely to the “mythos” established in the original film, while also serving to answer some questions and smooth over some particularly odd headscratchers (we learn the full story of H. Jon Benjamin’s talking veggies, for one thing, and it’s definitely worth the wait).

Ultimately, a comedy really only needs to answer one crucial question: is it funny? Wet Hot American Summer is many things (silly, loud, crude, nonsensical, esoteric, giddy) but, above and beyond all else, it’s definitely funny. Regardless of where your preferences lie on the comedy meter, I’m willing to wager that Wet Hot American Summer will have plenty of opportunities to tickle your funny-bone. As we’re solemnly told at the end of the film, “the entire summer, which kind of sucked, was rejuvenated by the events of the last 24 hours.” Sounds about right, campers…sounds just about right to me.

7/30/15: Easy Riders and the Wild Side

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'70s films, adults only, Any Mathieu, auteur theory, best friends, Blue Summer, Bo White, Chris Jordan, Chuck Vincent, cinema, coming of age, Davey Jones, dramas, Easy Rider, Eric Edwards, erotica, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, grindhouse, Harding Harrison, high school grads, hippies, hitchhikers, horny teenagers, Jacqueline Carol, Jeff Allen, Joann Sterling, Larry Lima, Lilly Bi Peep, Mark Ubell, Melissa Evers, Mike Ledis, Movies, non-professional actors, porn, random adventures, Richard Billay, road movie, Robert McLane, set in 1970s, sex comedies, Shana McGran, soft-core, Stephen Colwell, summer vacation, Sylvia Bernstein, vans, writer-director-editor

Chances are, whether you’ve actually seen the film or not, you’re at least familiar with Dennis Hopper’s iconic, counter-culture ode to the death of the idealistic ’60s, Easy Rider (1969). Crisscrossing the U.S. on their choppers, trying to make some sense of the whole mess, Hopper and Peter Fonda rode right off the screen into our collective consciences via their unforgettable (and, oftentimes, extremely random) encounters with various flower children, rednecks, authority figures, hip cats and square losers. Nearly 50 years after its release, Easy Rider still manages to capture the imagination of anyone who realizes that America’s best stories are still the ones collected on her back-roads: the ways in which we all act and interact, on a personal-level, will always say more about us than any casual examination of current politics and social mores ever could.

While I’m willing to wager that most folks have heard of Easy Rider, I’m just as willing to wager that almost no one recalls adult film auteur Chuck Vincent’s Blue Summer (1973). What does one have to do with the other? Well, to put it bluntly, Blue Summer is the soft-core, sex comedy “reimagining” of Easy Rider. Okay, okay: maybe not the “official” reimagining…there are no coy taglines connecting these spiritual cousins, nor is there even an undue focus on motorcycles (although one does figure prominently in the narrative). The film’s don’t share plot points, per se, and there are no clever, specific allusions to Wyatt, Billy or any of the various people they run into.

Despite the aforementioned, however, Blue Summer actually owes quite a debt to Easy Rider: like the “original,” Blue Summer is all about the assorted adventures that a pair of young men have on the road, adventures that lead them towards not only a greater understanding of the world at large, but also the worlds that exist within them. Throughout the course of the film, our young heroes will deal with “May-December romances,” free-loving hippies, Bible-thumpin’ traveling evangelists, casual sex, genuine love, small-town lunkheads, mysterious bikers and a quirky cult who freely believes “what’s yours is theirs.” Indeed, with more emphasis on the narrative elements and less focus on the simulated intercourse, Blue Summer would actually be a pretty decent bit of coming-of-age fluff. Ah, the ’70s…you crazy, gonzo, amazing little decade, you!

Our intrepid teenage heroes, Tracy (Davey Jones but not THAT Davey Jones) and Gene (Bo White) have decided to have one, last summer adventure before their lifelong friendship is tested when they both go off to far-flung universities. Loading their trusty van (the Meat Wagon) with enough cases of beer to get good, ol’ Bluto Blutarsky blasted, the duo decides to head out for scenic Stony Lake. The only things on the agenda? Why, drinking, driving, having fun, seeing the sights, keeping their minds off college and getting laid, obviously!

As Tracy and Gene travel the back-ways of America, they have a series of encounters that include a couple of thieving hitchhikers (Lilly Bi Peep, Joann Sterling), a stone-faced biker (Jeff Allen), a begging evangelist (Robert McLane), a hippy cultist and his free-loving acolytes (Larry Lima, Any Mathieu, Shana McGran), a middle-aged, married woman (Jacqueline Carol), a town-lush/nympho (Melissa Evers) and her group of redneck admirers and a mysterious no-named diver who seems to be the epitome of the ’70s “manic pixie girl” (Chris Jordan). Along the way, they go from silly, constantly giggling knuckleheads to…well, slightly less giggly, decidedly more grounded knuckleheads. The final shot/sentiment is a real corker: no much how much fun they’ve had, no matter how many different women they’ve “bedded,” the end of the trip signifies, for better or worse, the ends of their adolescent lives: from this point, they’re grownups…and nothing will ever be that awesome again.

Lest any gentle reader think I’m attempting to give writer/director/editor Vincent (who alternated between his real name and pseudonym Mark Ubell) more credit than even he probably felt he deserved, let’s be clear: Blue Summer is very much a soft-core, ’70s sex comedy, with all of the pluses and minuses that the descriptor carries. There’s plenty of nudity (although, as with most films like this, by and large of the female variety), simulated sex and non-professional acting (the rednecks, in particular, could only be called “actors” by an extremely loose application of the term), along with some appropriately ludicrous dialogue, line-delivery and general production issues (the lighting, in particular, is never great).

Now, however, to paraphrase the late, great Roger Ebert: let me get my other notebook. While Blue Summer is easily recognizable for what it is, it also has more heart, imagination and restraint than most of its peers. While there’s never much empty space between the assorted sex scenes, these “in-between” scenes are really where the film sets itself apart from the usual rabble. The subplot with the “mystical” biker never makes sense but does payoff in a nicely kickass (if pathetically sloppy) fight sequence, while the vignette involving the preacher features a really nice, subtle dig at the concept of passing the collection plate, especially where holy-rollers are involved.

The bit with the hitchhikers has a genuinely funny payoff, as does the one involving the cultists (the image of the snoozing hippies laying in the middle of the open field is a great punchline): there’s also some really nice points being made about the concept of sharing your earthly possessions with others (those who have the possessions do the “sharing,” while those without merely do the “suggesting”), as well as the concept of anonymous sex with strangers (“Miss No-Name” doesn’t feel obliged to introduce herself to Gene since “he won’t remember her name, anyway”…he doesn’t disagree, indicating that she’s probably right).

One of the film’s most surprising moments, however, comes after Tracy’s “nooner” with Margaret, the middle-aged, married woman. After having sex, she fixes him lunch in a manner that might best be described as ‘maternal.’ As Tracy eats, he goes on and on about how much he likes Margaret, rebuffing any and all attempts by her to trivialize their encounter. Just as Tracy seems to have convinced Margaret to overcome her reservations and meet with him again, however, her teenage son comes in from swimming, oblivious to what has just transpired between his mom and her young visitor. As Tracy watches the young man, who just so happens to be his age, the eagerness and intensity goes out of his face: both Margaret and Tracy look ashamed and he quickly takes his leave, never looking back.

It’s an intensely sad, mature moment in a film that certainly didn’t require it but benefits immensely from its inclusion, none the less. During moments like this, it’s easy to see Vincent as fighting a two-front war: on the one hand, he needs to deliver a soft-core porn flick, with all of the requisite trappings. On the other hand, he also wants to deliver something a little more substantial, something with enough blood flow to use more than one organ at a time. It’s a constant battle and one that’s not always won: the fact that Vincent fights it at all, however, gives him a leg up, in my book.

Ultimately, despite how fun and “innocent” Blue Summer actually is (all of the sex in the film is extremely positive: no one is ever forced, at any point, and both men and women seem to be having an equally good time), there’s no skirting the issue of its genetic makeup: this is a silly, ’70s sex comedy, full of simulated intercourse, full frontal female nudity and wacky antics, through and through. Deep down, however, it’s impossible to miss the film’s bigger, underlying themes: it might be a “dirty” movie but it’s not a stupid one. If you’re a fan of the sub-genre or just want to see what a “porn-lite” version of Easy Rider might look like, jump in the van, pop the top on a cold one and let Blue Summer take the wheel.

You know that old chestnut, “they just don’t make ’em like this anymore?” Well, they really don’t make ’em like this anymore. But they used to. If you think about it, that’s kind of amazing all by itself.

7/18/15: The Shadow That Trails Behind

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Afflicted, casual sex, cinema, coming of age, Contracted, Daniel Zovatto, David Robert Mitchell, Disasterpeace, electronic score, film reviews, films, gorgeous cinematography, horror, horror films, hot pursuit, It Follows, Jake Weary, Keir Gilchrist, Lili Sepe, Maika Monroe, Mike Gioulakis, Movies, Olivia Luccardi, rape, Rich Vreeland, sexually transmitted diseases, supernatural, The Babadook, The Myth of the American Sleepover, thriller, writer-director

Gorgeously shot, lushly atmospheric and as funereal-paced as a Sabbath song, writer-director David Robert Mitchell’s sophomore feature, It Follows (2014), has already been pegged as this year’s The Babadook (2014): in other words, the mature, intelligent and well-made antidote to the seemingly endless horror remakes and sequels that clogged multiplex arteries for over a decade now. A hit on the festival circuit, It Follows managed to kick up quite a bit of dust with both critics and fans alike, leading to early calls of “neo-classic” and “the next Halloween (1978).” As someone who was quite taken with Jennifer Kent’s Babadook, I approached this with no small amount of excitement and trepidation. Does It Follows live up to the hype, propelling the horror field into a bold, exciting new era? Follow me and we’ll find out.

Jay (Maika Monroe) is, for all intents and purposes, a pretty normal young lady: she likes to sun in the pool, enjoys hanging out with her friends, Paul (Keir Gilchrist) and Yara (Olivia Luccardi), and sister, Kelly (Lili Sepe) and is just wasting away the lazy days before they all have to head off to college. She’s also dating a “really nice guy” named Hugh (Jake Weary) and, despite some obvious jealousy vibes from “friend-zoned” Paul, Jay and her beau are about to take their relationship to the next level.

After a tender lovemaking session in their car, in the middle of the woods, Jay’s post-coital glow is rudely interrupted by her “nice guy” knocking her out with chloroform. Upon waking, Jay is tied to a chair in the middle of a gutted building and Hugh, albeit apologetically, fills her in on her very grim future. It would seem that Hugh “contracted” some form of curse/demonic STD from a one-night stand and has slept with Jay in order to save himself and pass it on to her.

The “rules” are simple, if somewhat less than consistent: Jay will be followed relentlessly by “something” that has the ability to look like anyone it wants. It will walk after her, slowly, literally willing to pursue her to the ends of the earth. If the “presence” touches Jay, she’s DOA. If it kills Jay before she passes it on, Hugh is DOA, meaning he has an obvious stake in keeping her alive. The only thing that Jay can do is stay on the move and find some unlucky guy to screw (literally and figuratively).

As she rushes about, always keeping one eye behind her, Jay and her friends, along with some dude named Greg (Daniel Zovatto), try to unravel the true nature of Hugh’s identity and get to the bottom of the curse that threatens to end Jay’s very young life. No matter where they go, however, “it” is always just over the horizon, slouching towards Jay like that “rough beast” towards Bethlehem. Will Jay opt to meet her doom head-on or will she, like Hugh, decide to damn another innocent? She’d better make her mind up fast: it follows and it has no intention of stopping.

Writer-director Mitchell first appeared on my radar via his feature-debut, the surprisingly exceptional teen relationship drama The Myth of the American Sleepover (2010). Mitchell’s first film was exquisitely shot (the cinematography, alone, was worth the price of admission), realistically acted and full of some genuinely thought-provoking moments: the script, alone, was probably one of the better ones to come down the pike in some time and the film established David Robert Mitchell as “someone destined for great things.”

Flash-forward a few years and we arrive at It Follows, Mitchell’s next major step into the public consciousness. Like his debut, Mitchell’s follow-up looks absolutely beautiful: Mike Gioulakis’ cinematography has a warm, panoramic quality that makes every single frame look immaculately composed, framed and presented for maximum visual impact. The score, courtesy of Disasterpeace (aka Rich Vreeland), is pretty damn awesome, handily recalling both John Carpenter and Goblin’s moody, synthy masterpieces: when combined with the astounding camerawork, It Follows is reminiscent (in mood and look) of something like Richard Kelly’s Donnie Darko (2001), albeit filtered through a neo-slasher aesthetic.

The acting is solid across the board, with Maika Monroe proving that her fantastic performance in last year’s The Guest (2014) was anything but a fluke: endlessly likable, strong, intelligent and utterly human, Monroe’s Jay is the epitome of the “final girl” and a massively successful hero. The selfish part of me secretly wishes that she’d get pigeonholed into horror roles for the next several years although, realistically, Monroe is way too talented to get stuck anywhere for long: if It Follows marks her big leap into prestige pictures, it’s still a win-win for everyone.

Despite her commanding performance, Monroe has plenty of able support in the backfield. Gilchrist, perhaps best known as the son on United States of Tara but possessed of a resume that includes stellar performances in everything from Dead Silence (2007) to It’s Kind of a Funny Story (2010) to Dark Summer (2015), is great as the love-sick Paul, bringing just the right combo of frustration, obsession, disappointment and infatuation to the role. Paul is a character that could have come across as kind of a creepy perv but Gilchrist makes him as eminently likable as Jay.

While Luccardi, Sepe and Zovatto all turn in strong performances, Jake Weary really surprises as Hugh, the “nice guy” who does a very bad thing. On paper, Hugh could’ve come across as a real villain, a callous, vaguely threatening presence (his chloroforming of Jay carries more than a little hint of rape, despite coming after the actual sex) who exists only to jumpstart the action. Onscreen, however, Hugh is much more sympathetic and seems genuinely concerned about Jay: he’s not a bad guy, per se, just an exceptionally desperate one. While stepping over Jay to “get to safety” will never wash as the “gentlemanly” response to the situation, nothing about Hugh (or Weary’s performance) bespeaks of douchebag bros or raging misogynists.

So: It Follows is beautifully made and features a great cast…how does it actually stack up as a horror film? To be frankly honest…it’s good but definitely not exceptional. Unlike The Babadook, which possessed more than its share of genuine scary moments but was also appropriately knotty and weighty, It Follows is a much more obvious, straight-forward kind of monster. The entire film consists of sinister figures appearing in the background, usually without the main characters noticing, and proceeding to slowly advance to the foreground. There’s certainly a variety of “stalker” represented here (one of my favorites was the exceptionally odd zombie-cheerleader who appears to urinate all over the place) but that’s about it, as far as the “monster” goes.

In fact, one of the places where It Follows stumbles the hardest is with the actual mythos/rules surrounding the sinister presence. To be blunt: the rules end up being vague, inconsistent and more than a little nonsensical. We’re told that the presence walks everywhere (slowly, to boot) and that driving away is a good way to get a head start. No matter how far Jay drives, however, the presence is always just over the horizon: for an exceptionally slow walker, that damn thing sure can sprint, when necessary. There’s also the matter of traveling to someplace like, say, Australia: would the presence need to walk through the entire ocean to get there or would it hop a plane, too? While I realize that the “always there” factor of the monster is a nod to classic slashers like Freddy and Jason, it’s kind of undone when the film goes out of its way to hammer home the whole “walking” aspect.

There’s also the question of the creature’s forward momentum. Hugh makes it a point to say how the creature never stops moving but, time after time, we’re treated to atmospheric shots where the presence is just standing there, looking menacing (chief among these being the rather silly bit where it appears on top of a nearby roof). For my money, the notion of an endlessly moving threat is pretty terrifying: take a minute to catch your breath and kiss your ass goodbye! Here, the creature seems to be given to so much inactivity that, at one point, Jay even goes into the woods and falls asleep on top of her damn car: while I never expect perfect logic from horror films, this silly scene pulled me right out (if only briefly).

A third issue lies with what the creature actually does. Hugh tells Jay not to let it touch her but, at several points, it does and she seems to be just fine. At one point, it appears to fold its victim into something resembling a human pretzel (which is, admittedly, a really nice touch): at another point, it appears to violently “hump” someone to death. There’s also the notion that the creature is only hazardous to its intended victim, since no one else can see it: despite this, however, the others are able to attack it, shoot it, throw blankets over it, et al, while it can handily toss them around the room with impunity. Again, the details of the actual creature become so foggy that it’s hard to ever get fully invested. In a zombie film, we know that a headshot kills, so we automatically tense up when a character shoots anywhere else and assumes it’s groovy: in It Follows, we’re never quite sure what needs to happen (aside from the passing it on part), so it becomes difficult to know when a character is truly in danger.

Thematically, It Follows splits the difference between a coming-of-age story (ala Mitchell’s own Myth of the American Sleepover) and a thinly-veiled metaphor about sexually transmitted disease, ala Contracted (2013) or Afflicted (2013). As such, the coming-of-age aspect actually works a little better: Contracted was much better at portraying the inner turmoil and anxiety of not only the act of sex but the acquiring of an infectious disease, whereas It Follows really shines when it comes to the interactions between the various characters.

Ultimately, I really enjoyed It Follows but definitely didn’t find it to be the “genre savior” that others seem to have. While the film never looks or sounds anything less than gorgeous, it’s also got more than its fair share of problems, including that aforementioned dodgy mythos and a few too many plot holes for my liking. The film is also a little long, which only becomes problematic in the final half where too many scenes devolve into what seems to be time-killing and foot-shuffling. I worship at the altar of slow-paced films but there’s a balance and, too often, It Follows had trouble with the ratio.

Despite all of this, however, I eagerly await David Robert Mitchell’s next foray into film, whether it be horror or something closer to his debut. He’s an obviously talented filmmaker and writer with a real knack for capturing eye-popping visuals: in certain ways, he reminds me of an up-and-coming Adam Wingard, which is certainly no insult. When It Follows is good, it’s pretty damn great: at times, it seems to so perfectly evoke the spirit of J-Horror films that it could almost be an import. It’s a smart film that features realistic, likable characters relating in ways that feel authentic, never phoned-in or phony. It’s also a fairly original film, which is certainly nothing to sneeze at: even if the mythos is inconsistent and vague, it’s obvious that Mitchell put lots of thought into the overall feel. It Follows may not be the next Babadook (and it’s certainly not the next Nightmare on Elm Street (1984), despite the scuttlebutt) but it’s a more than worthy entry in the modern horror sweepstakes and deserves the attention of any discerning fan. Best of the year, though? Not by a long-shot.

4/23/15: One Family’s Trash, Everyone’s Treasure

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cinema, coming of age, dramadies, dramas, dysfunctional family, Eva Birthistle, family in crisis, film reviews, films, Fionnula Flanagan, foreign films, grandmothers, independent films, Irish films, Kelly Thornton, Lance Daly, Lesley Conroy, Life's a Breeze, lost money, low-key, media circus, Movies, Pat Shortt, Philip Judge, set in Ireland, Willie Higgins, writer-director-cinematographer-editor

As far as problems go, Nan (Fionnula Flanagan) has quite a few on her plate: she’s just about to turn 80; her pie-in-the-sky son, Colm (Pat Shortt), is habitually unemployed; her daughters, Margaret (Eva Birthistle) and Annie (Lesley Conroy), don’t understand her; her granddaughter, Emma (Kelly Thornton), doesn’t want to spend time with her; and her little Irish town is just about as economically depressed as one place can get. And she’s just had her life savings accidentally sent to the landfill by her well-meaning but hopelessly inept family: you know…no big deal.

The loss of Nan’s fortune (she was quite the thrifty saver!) is, of course, only the catalyst of writer-director Lance Daly’s low-key Life’s a Breeze (2013): the meat of the matter is the way in which her dysfunctional family must pull together in order to undo their own colossal blunder, during which they’ll heal old wounds, create new friendships and actually become a family. As the motley group races around town, desperately seeking the tossed-out mattress that holds just south of a million euros, they’ll learn the most important lesson of all: family may drive you crazy but, when the chips are down, they’re also the only people you can ever really rely on.

Story-wise, Life’s a Breeze (which takes its name from the logo on a prominent air freshener, in but one of many sly sight gags) is pretty standard-issue, independent film dramady but it’s elevated exponentially by a truly great cast. As always, Fionnula Flanagan is a complete treasure, one of those actors who is so immensely entertaining that she can carry just about production on her shoulders. In this case, however, the heavy-lifting is alleviated by the presence of Pat Shortt (equally outstanding in The Guard (2011) and Calvary (2014)), Eva Birthistle and Lesley Conroy as Nan’s constantly feuding children. The chemistry between the family is pitch-perfect, leading to some deliciously on-the-nose bickering, all tempered by a genuine sense that these misfits actually love each other.

If Life’s a Breeze has a secret weapon (besides Flanagan, of course), it definitely lies with Kelly Thornton. This is her debut and, to be honest, she’s nothing short of astounding. Emma’s coming-of-age journey from petulant teen to strong, confident young woman is never less than riveting and Thornton very nearly steals any scene that she’s in. With her ever-present knit cap (complete with ears), Emma often reminds of a life-action version of the incomparable Louise Belcher and I mean that in the absolute best way possible. Suffice to say that I hope (and expect) to see much more of Thornton in the future: everything about her performance suggests that she’s just beginning what promises to be a must-see career.

Ultimately, Life’s a Breeze is an agreeable, surprisingly serious and incredibly well-acted (if overly familiar) entry in the “dysfunctional family” subgroup of independent films. Fans of Fionnula Flanagan (and, let’s be honest, who isn’t?) will definitely want to check this out but I suspect that Kelly Thornton’s Emma will be the one that stays on most audience member’s minds well after the credits roll. At the end of the day, Daly’s film is really about the passing of the torch from the older generation to the younger and I can’t think of anyone more deserving of receiving that prestigious flaming honor than Thornton.

3/12/15: Where There’s a Mom, There’s a Way

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abandoned in a foreign place, adult friendships, Andres Munar, Anthony Chisholm, bittersweet, Bradford Young, cinema, co-directors, co-writers, Colombian immigrants, coming of age, courage, dramas, dysfunctional marriage, Eddie Martinez, Entre Nos, feature-film debut, female friendships, film festival favorite, film reviews, films, Gil Talmi, Gloria La Morte, homeless, homeless children, husband-wife relationship, immigration, inspired by true events, Jacqueline Duprey, Laura Montana, motherhood, Movies, multiple directors, multiple writers, Paola Mendoza, Sarita Choudhury, Sebastian Villada, self-sacrifice, set in New York City, single mother, Spanish-language films, strength, writer-director-actor

Think about Mariana (Paola Mendoza) the next time you’re having a bummer day: uprooting herself and her two children from their lives in Colombia, she follows her shifty husband, Antonio (Andres Munar), all the way to Queens, New York, only for him to suddenly head off to sunny Miami, where he’s decided to start a new life…one that doesn’t include his “old” family. Alone in a foreign land, unable to speak the language, jobless and with children in tow, Mariana’s options look as grim and hopeless as they do scarce. Like I said: there are bad days…and then there are BAD days.

The human spirit is a funny thing, though, the kind of inner power that would make a superhero blush. When someone has the will to survive and the relentless drive to keep pushing forward, against all odds…well, pretty much anything is possible. Paola Mendoza and Gloria La Morte’s extraordinary Entre Nos (2009) is testament to this notion of inner strength, a semi-autobiographical story about an unstoppable mother’s ferocious fight to keep her family together, despite every disaster, tragedy, hiccup and speed bump that the universe can possibly throw at her. What could have been maudlin, overly emotional or obvious becomes vibrant, life-affirming and genuinely resonant in the hands of the truly gifted filmmakers and cast.

While Entre Nos (roughly, “between us”) is about the struggles that immigrants face when coming to a new country, it’s also about how easy it is for people to slip from the scant comfort of the “lower” classes into the abject terror of homelessness: as Mendoza and La Morte show, there’s only a few short steps and misfortunes that lead from four walls and a floor to a park bench. There’s a universality to the film that goes far beyond the nationalities of its protagonists: while not all of may have first-hand experiences with the struggles of being an emigrant to a foreign country, it’s fair to say that any and everyone worries, at least in the back of their heads, where their next meal is coming from.

It’s to Mendoza and La Morte’s great credit that they manage to combine these twin struggles, that of the immigrant and the newly homeless, into such a potent, vibrant stew. As mentioned earlier, there’s nothing overly sentimental or aggressively manipulative about the film: we’re simply shown a woman who’s been thrown into a hole and, rather than bemoan that fact, simply puts her head down and starts digging her way out. There’s a refreshing matter-of-factness to the way in which Mariana sizes up any given situation and acts: she’s conflicted, sure, and we get more than a couple heart-breaking breakdown, along the way…that’s just the unfortunate other half of the human condition. When the chips are down, however, Mariana has a resilience and power that’s positively inspiring: if she doesn’t let life beat her down, why should we?

Entre Nos, then, is about the struggles of the immigrant and the ever-present threat of personal and economic collapse: that would be a potent enough one-two punch for just about any film. There’s more under the hood, however, than just the “big” issues: Mendoza and La Morte’s film is also about the relationship between a mother and her children, about trying to balance being a kid with becoming an adult and about the importance of providing for your family, regardless of the costs or sacrifice. It’s about friendships, those halting ones that begin over shared strife and continue based on genuine love.

This is Mariana’s story but it’s not hers, alone, to tell: characters like the kindly recycling maven, Joe (Anthony Chisholm), or Mariana’s landlord/hesitant friend, Preet (an absolutely extraordinary Sarita Choudhury), contribute just as much to the overall tapestry, but we’d be remiss not to mention the reason for Mariana’s constant struggle: her beloved son, Gabriel (Sebastian Villada), and daughter, Andrea (Laura Montana). As strong as the rest of the cast are, Villada and Montana still manage to shine as the equally resilient kids. It’s a real treat watching Gabriel, slowly, become a man, while Andrea provides a necessary innocence and sense of child-like optimism to circumstances that could certainly be deemed soul-crushing.

Entre Nos isn’t just an acting tour de force, however: the film is exquisitely crafted and looks amazing. Props to Gil Talmi for a funky, head-bobbing score that mixes cumbias with more “traditional” dramatic scores and only occasionally dips into stereotypically “serious” territory. The often gorgeous cinematography, courtesy of Bradford Young, has endless appeal: there’s one shot that frames Mariana and her sleeping children like the Pieta and is almost impossibly beautiful. In the years since Entre Nos’ release, Young would go on to shoot a couple of films called Selma (2014) and A Most Violent Year (2014): you know…no big deal…

Like the particular spot of land that it depicts, Entre Nos is nothing if not a melting pot of influences, styles, points of view and ways of life. There’s a vibrancy and immediacy to the proceedings that pulls viewers in and keeps us right in the thick of things: if I had to compare the filmmakers’ style to anything, it would be latter-day John Sayles, which is pretty damn high praise, indeed. There’s an eye and ear for the way that every-day folk talk and interact that cuts thorough generations of artificial bullshit and gets right to the heart of the human condition: each and every one of us deserves to live our lives to the fullest of our potential, regardless of our individual situations.

We find out, at the end, that Andrea became a filmmaker and created Entre Nos as a tribute and testament to the strength of her mother. It makes perfect sense: everything about the film has the feel of a passion project and Mendoza’s triple-threat of writing-directing-acting is nothing short of stunning. Reminiscent of Marion Cotillard’s powerful blend of iron-will and vulnerability, Mendoza’s performance is utterly unforgettable and the film’s deserves all of the love that it’s received at festivals since its release (although a little mainstream attention might be nice…).

Exemplifying the very best aspects of the human condition, Entre Nos is a film that deserves not only praise for its technical and thematic elements but for its ability to unite us all under one common need, regardless of race, class, gender, nationality or political affiliation: if you can’t understand and empathize with Mariana’s need to make a better life for herself and her children, well, pardner…I’m gonna go ahead and assume that you’re not human. In this one case, the film was definitely not made for you: move along…absolutely nothing to see here, whatsoever.

2/22/15: Growing Up, Moving On

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2014 Academy Awards, 87th Annual Academy Awards, absentee father, abusive relationships, Andrew Villarreal, Barbara Chisholm, Best Director nominee, Best Film Editing nominee, Best Original Screenplay nominee, Best Picture nominee, Best Supporting Actor nominee, Best Supporting Actress winner, Boyhood, Brad Hawkins, brother-sister relationships, Cambell Westmoreland, Cassidy Johnson, Charlie Sexton, cinema, coming of age, divorced parents, dramas, dysfunctional family, Elijah Smith, Ellar Coltrane, Ethan Hawke, father-son relationships, film reviews, films, Jamie Howard, Jenni Tooley, Jessi Mechler, Libby Villari, Lorelei Linklater, Marco Perella, mother-son relationships, Movies, multiple award nominee, Patricia Arquette, relationship, Richard Linklater, single mother, Sinjin Venegas, Steven Prince, Tom McTigue, Zoe Graham

From the outside, indie film wunderkind Richard Linklater’s Boyhood (2014) seems like a pretty impossible endeavor: filmed over the course of 12 years with the same cast, the film purports to follow young Mason (Ellar Coltrane) from his childhood all the way to his 18th birthday, as he leaves for college. Along the way, we get to witness Mason (and his family) growing up before our very eyes, the passage of time marked by such, real-world indicators as growing taller, sprouting facial hair or any of the endless ways in which children become adults. It’s an impressive bit of filmcraft, no two ways about it, the kind of thing that would, no doubt, earn an appreciative thumbs-up from an experimental filmmaker like Terrence Malick. While the final result ends up being no different from a thousand other coming of age tales, it does nothing to take away from Linklater’s achievement: as the press states, there really hasn’t been another film like this and it’s doubtful there will be another quite like it in the future.

Structured in a loosely chronological manner, albeit one devoid of any easy time demarcations (there are no “Two years later” notes, time/date indicators or anything so obvious, although the use of pop music and culture helps to ground the film’s time-frame in a thoroughly organic manner), we follow young Mason, his slightly older sister, Samantha (Lorelei Linklater), his single mother, Liv (Patricia Arquette) and his absentee father, Mason Senior (Ethan Hawke), as they all go about the process of living their lives. Samantha begins as a shrill, obnoxious kid and grows into a smart, droll and laid-back young woman. We watch Liv’s journey as she progresses from divorced, single mother to new college student and, later, college professor: along the way, she bounces from one bad, abusive relationship to the next, first with her alcoholic professor/husband, Bill (Marco Perella), later with a damaged, former soldier (Brad Hawkins). We see how Mason Senior moves from an aimless, perpetually restless, politically-active roustabout to a centered, responsible fellow with a new family and a desire to get it all right, at least the second time around.

The majority of our focus, of course, is reserved for the film’s subject, young Mason. We follow him through all the vagaries of childhood: first love, schoolyard bullies, family problems, sibling rivalries, making (and losing) friends, developing his own interests and viewpoints (albeit with more than a little influence from his father’s fiery rhetoric) and, finally, leaving the nest to strike out into the world and make his own mark. Through it all, Coltrane proves to be a more than capable actor, as comfortable with the film’s bigger emotional beats (the abusive home situation) as he is with the subtler ones (the scene where he hangs out in an abandoned house with older boys and talks about girls, for one). It’s to Coltrane’s great credit that the young performer always feels authentic: there’s an inherent danger with child actors that they’ll come across as stiff or unrealistic but that’s never a problem here.

To be honest, aside from the over-familiarity of the film, there’s very little to complain about here. The acting is uniformly solid, even if none of the performances really distinguish themselves from the others: while Arquette won the Best Supporting Actress Oscar for her performance here, all of the acting is similarly realistic…there were no real standouts, at least from my perspective. The film looks great, with some nice, vibrant colors and the sound design is quite exceptional: the film is very music-oriented (as is much of Linklater’s output) and the use of pop music to establish the time-frame is nicely realized.

Personally, I’ve never been the biggest Linklater fan: I’ve always found Slacker (1991) to be thoroughly underwhelming and Dazed and Confused (1993) has always placed well behind Fast Times at Ridgemont High (1982) in my personal playbook. To be honest, my favorite Linklater film is actually Bernie (2011), which is probably the least representative film in his canon. My major issue has always been that his films seem more content to keep up a constant verbal barrage than to actually mean anything: it’s always come across as a ridiculously pompous combination of Kevin Smith and John Cassavetes, at least to my non-discerning ears. While Boyhood is less guilty of this than past films, there’s still plenty of wheel-spinning, especially once we get to Mason’s numerous “philosophical” discussions with girlfriend Sheena (Zoe Graham).

Ultimately, I enjoyed Boyhood, although I certainly wouldn’t rank it as one of the best films of 2014: minus the “twelve years” gimmick, there really wasn’t anything here that I hadn’t seen before, certainly no great “insights” into growing up. In many ways, this was very much a basic coming-of-age film with a slightly glossier top-coat. I was also rather unhappy that Arquette’s character, essentially, was summed up by her various bad relationship choices: it seems slightly mean-spirited that the film allows her to progress from single mother to student to college professor, only for her to keep making the exact same relationship mistakes at each and every turn. It’s almost as if the film is saying that no matter how much Liv progresses, learns or grows, she’s still just a woman who needs a guy in order to feel complete…and can’t even pick a “good” one, to boot. Her final breakdown seems even more reductive, in this light, as if her entire life is defined by others, whether husbands, boyfriends or her own kids.

There’s a lot to like here, without a doubt: very rarely has a family/relationship drama felt this realistic and the actors all have tremendous chemistry together. At the end of the day, however, Boyhood is not appreciably better (or more insightful) than any number of similar films: at the end of the day, I have to wonder…was it worth the twelve years?

12/29/14: Love Hurts

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abortion, Antichrist, attempted rape, auteur theory, BDSM, Best of 2014, Breaking the Waves, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Christian Slater, cinema, coming of age, favorite films, female sexuality, feminism, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, foreign films, graphic films, Jamie Bell, Lars von Trier, Manuel Alberto Claro, Melancholia, Mia Goth, Movies, Nymphomaniac, Rammstein, real sex, sexuality, Shia LeBeouf, Stacy Martin, Stellan Skarsgard, stylish films, Udo Kier, Willem Dafoe, writer-director

Love him or hate him, there’s absolutely no denying what a massively talented filmmaker Danish provocateur Lars Von Trier is: the proof, as they say, is in the pudding. Despite his propensity for incendiary soundbites while on press junkets, Von Trier has been an uncompromising force in the world of film since bursting into the public eye with Breaking the Waves (1996): since that time, Von Trier has given us some of the most unforgettable, amazing art films in the history of the medium – Dancer in the Dark (2000), Dogville (2003), Manderlay (2005), Antichrist (2009) and Melancholia (2011) are all deeply individualistic, exquisitely crafted and endlessly inventive works of art that don’t shy away from big or unpleasant questions while never losing sight of the impish, dark sense of humor that’s characterized all of Von Trier’s productions.

Quite simply, people expect Von Trier to be a shit disturber and the description for his latest venture produced the required amount of consternation: in his daffiest pronouncement yet, Von Trier promised to do no less than completely explore female sexuality, from a female perspective, none the less. The very notion of any male proclaiming to “understand” female sexuality is both ridiculous and more than a little offensive: there’s much more than notions of textbook biology that factor into this, since psychological, societal and familial issues all factor into any understanding of what constitutes female sexuality. There’s also the fact that…well…you know…Lars Von Trier is a guy: what, exactly, makes him any kind of an expert on the female body?

Here’s the thing, though: it’s easy to get riled at Von Trier’s hubris, to scoff at the very notion that any man could purport to craft the end-all-be-all of female sexuality. After all, this is the same guy who gave us the unrelentingly misogynistic Dogville and the gynocidal-themed Antichrist: can we really trust someone like Von Trier to give anything approaching a balanced representation of female sexuality? It’s remarkably easy to talk shit about the whole enterprise until you’re actually face-to-face with the finished product. Is Von Trier’s Nymphomaniac (2014) the “ultimate” representation of female sexuality on the big screen? Probably not. Is it one of the most fascinating, inflammatory and must-see films of the year? Absolutely.

Divided across two halves, eight chapters and roughly 5.5 hours (this review refers to the “uncut director’s edition”), Nymphomaniac is the furthest thing from “rainy day” viewing. This is a film that demands (and rewards) close attention: interested parties are advised to just swallow the pill, devote a day to the proceedings and just let Von Trier take the reins. I’ve never been the biggest fan of binge-watching “large” films, in general, but take my advise: you’ll want to absorb Nymphomaniac in one go, similar to ripping a band-aid off in one pull.

We begin with Seligman (Stellan Skarsgard) finding Joe (Charlotte Gainsbourg) beaten nearly to death in an alley. He spirits her home, sees to her wounds and asks her about the circumstances that led to her dire condition. This, of course, is all a ploy to get us to the main event: the complete life history of our protagonist, Joe. From this point on, Joe relates her life story to the kindly, doting Seligman, a story which focuses predominantly on her sexual awakening and exploits. Although we’ll view it all in seemingly arbitrary order, we’ll follow Joe from her first orgasm, at age 12, all the way to the events that led to her current state. Along the way, we’ll learn about her life-long love-affair with Jerome (Shia Lebouf), her relationship with her scientist father (Christian Slater),  her introduction to BDSM at the hands of the mysterious K (Jamie Bell), her self-administered abortion and eventual mastery of her own libido, after the failure of the various men in her life.

It’s a painful journey, as we’ll see, a journey that involves the loss of Joe’s son, the loss of her beloved father, the loss of control over her own body, the loss of her “true love” and her eventual loss of self. It’s also an enlightening journey, however, as Joe learns to control her own sexuality and understand her body in ways that she never could before. Joe is anything but a victim: for the majority of the film’s runtime, Joe is in complete control of her sexuality and body: even when she doesn’t fully understand the ramifications, Joe is always the one who calls the shots. At the end of the day, can there really be a more progressive, forward-thinking POV than that?

Here’s the thing: as with anything else by Von Trier, love it or hate it, there’s absolutely no denying how amazing Nymphomaniac is…from a sheer filmmaking perspective, the film is an absolute marvel. Stuffed to bursting with gorgeous cinematography, ingenious editing, and some truly marvelous performances, Nymphomaniac is utterly captivating, from beginning to end. I simply cannot stress enough how impressive this is in a film that stretches nearly to the six-hour mark: this seems to fly by in record time.

I would be remiss if I didn’t spend at least a moment or two discussing the film’s sexual content. Ready? Here it goes: you will see lots and lots of penises, vaginas, graphic penetration, fellatio and cunnilingus…if any of this bothers you, this is, without a doubt, not the film for you. I will make the point, however, that the sexuality in Nymphomaniac always comes across as graphic, rather than gratuitous: there’s an important distinction and I feel that Von Trier manages to keep everything on the “proper” side throughout the film’s runtime.

One aspect of the film that adds, immeasurably, to the overall feel is the underlying sense of humor. While very little about Nymphomaniac is explicitly funny, per se, the film is chock-a-block with Von Trier’s patented sense of dark, ironic humor. While much of the humor comes from Seligman’s often inappropriate digressions and asides, one of the film’s purely “funniest” scenes has to be the setpiece where Joe attempts to instigate a threesome with two African men, without speaking their language. The scene acts as a microcosm of the entire film, in a way, expertly blending the slapstick and the obscene, the erotic and the ridiculous, to dizzying effect.

The core of the film, performance-wise, is definitely the combined tour-de-force of Gainsbourg and Skarsgard. While Skarsgard is reliably solid as the inquisitive, kindly scientist, Gainsbourg absolutely owns the film as Joe. There’s a nuance and sense of unpredictability to her performance that is an absolute joy to watch and I’ll be honest: the fact that Gainsbourg wasn’t nominated for any acting awards has more to do with the fact that Von Trier is too much of a hot potato than with real issues…her performance is magnificent and certainly deserved to be celebrated.

Most importantly, Nymphomaniac is an incredibly complex film: from the constant digressions (ala House of Leaves) to the time-line jumping to the theoretical discussions and the ever-prevalent symbolism, there’s an awful lot going on here at any given time. Von Trier manages to imbue everything with its own distinct feel, as befits the various themes: the hospice section has a stark, black-and-white feel that recalls Von Trier’s earliest, most experimental works, while various other portions recall the stunning visuals that characterize latter-day works like Antichrist and Melancholia.

My main issue going into this, to be honest, was the underlying notion that Von Trier really has no business telling this particular story: a film like this needs to come from a female perspective, no two ways about it. Ultimately, however, I find myself torn: Von Trier tells this tale with so much nuance and subtlety that it seems completely reductive to cut him out of the discussion. Von Trier, the man, might not have anything inherent to add to this particular gender discussion but Von Trier, the filmmaker, has plenty to say and it would seem a little remiss not to at least listen.

Ultimately, there’s a lot going on here, more than can, reasonably, be discussed in this kind of a format. While there will always be the question of whether Von Trier has any dog in this race, so to speak, the end-results speak for themselves. At the end of the day, all that we can do is look at the finished product and examine the facts, such as they are. Here are the facts: an uncompromising filmmaker has crafted an uncompromising film and the results demand to be seen and discussed. Is this the final word on gender discussions? Absolutely not…but I don’t think it pretends to be, either. Rather, I think that Von Trier has created a film which frames the discussion of female sexuality in a way that explicitly references not only modern notions of “entertainment” but classical “acceptance” of gender roles and norms.

More than anything, Nymphomaniac asks us to take all of the proffered information and frame it in a distinctly genderless manner: if we wouldn’t bat an eye at a guy doing any of this, why would we look so askance at a woman doing the same thing? In the end, this is Nymphomaniac (and Von Trier’s) greatest victory: we know that it’s “accepted,” but is it right? Nymphomaniac doesn’t think it is and, to be honest, neither should you.

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12/26/14 (Part Three): Red Wanda and the Novice Nun

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Agata Kulesza, Agata Trzebuchoska, ancestry, aunt-niece relationships, black-and-white cinematography, cinema, co-writers, coming of age, crisis of faith, Dawid Ogrodnik, debut acting role, family secrets, film reviews, films, foreign films, Ida, Ida Lebenstein, Lukasz Zal, Movies, multiple cinematographers, Nazi occupation, Nazis, nun-initiate, nuns, Pawel Pawlikowski, Polish film, post-World War 2, Rebecca Lenkiewicz, Red Wanda, Ryszard Lenczewski, secular vs non-secular, set in 1960s, writer-director

There’s something austere and almost impossibly brittle about Polish writer-director Pawel Pawlikowski’s Ida (2013), a low-key, old-fashioned and quietly powerful story about a young nun’s search for her true identity amid the ever-present shadows of post-Occupation Poland in the ’60s. Perhaps due to the film’s gorgeous black-and-white cinematography (courtesy of dual cinematographers Ryszard Lenczewski and Lukasz Zal), leisurely pace or the relative lack of dialogue in many sections, Ida often seems more like a product of the era it portrays than it does of the modern one, as if Pawlikowski’s modest film were some forgotten gem recently unearthed in an obsessive collector’s estate sale.

Beginning with a dialogue-free scene that’s almost verite in its execution, we’re introduced to our young protagonist, Anna (newcomer Agata Trzebuchoska), a nun-initiate, as she goes about a typical day in the convent with her fellow nuns. Anna’s well-ordered world is thrown into disarray, however, when the Mother Superior tells her know that her heretofore-unknown aunt, Wanda Gruz (Agata Kulesza), has surfaced: Anna is to spend time with her and get to know her before taking her vows and sequestering herself away from the outside world.

Wanda, a hard-drinking, take-no-nonsense former state prosecutor (she was known as Red Wanda and used to be both extremely powerful and very feared) is probably the last person that Anna expects to spend time with and her aunt seems to view the whole thing as some sort of cosmic joke. There’s a deeper method to the madness, however, and Wanda shortly drops a bombshell on Anna: her real name is Ida Lebenstein and her family (including Wanda’s sister) disappeared during the Nazi Occupation. Stunned by this sudden revelation about her lineage but determined to uncover the truth about her family’s fate, Anna/Ida and Wanda set out through the frigid Polish countryside. As Wanda questions first one source and then another (although “interrogates” might be the better word), the aunt and niece get ever closer to the truth. Along the way, however, something even more unexpected happens: Wanda and Anna begin to bond, as each woman finds, in the other, something that’s been missing in their own lives. As Anna learns more and more about the world around her, her lifelong convictions are tested at every point: once her eyes are fully open, will she be able to return to the convent or does life now hold other mysteries for her?

There’s a sad, poetic lyricism to Ida that instantly reminded me of both the Italian New Wave and the early films of Jim Jarmusch, particularly Stranger Than Paradise (1984): the fish-out-of-water quality of Anna’s character, especially when jammed up against Wanda’s jaded, cynical worldview, definitely reminded me of the Willie/Eva relationship in Jarmusch’s film, although Wanda ends up much more likable, thanks to generally kick-ass demeanor. In certain ways, Kulesza’s Wanda is an indie-film version of Wendie Malick’s Nina van Horn character from Just Shoot Me: she’s a former big-shot who’s now a boozy shadow of her previous glory, yet retains just enough steel grit and determination to be formidable, when necessary. She’s also effortlessly funny, sassy and a real force-of-nature.

Trzebuchoska, in her big-screen debut, is quite affecting as Anna: although she’s wide-eyed and seems to be as innocent as the omnipresent snow, there’s an underlying curiosity and inquisitiveness that constantly bubbles to the surface, informing her performance in some truly subtle, striking ways. There’s something quite genuine about her journey of self-discovery: Anna never comes across as a forceful or strong personality, in any way, but the ghost-image of her aunt’s square-jawed determination still hangs about her like a fog, informing some of her acts of “rebellion” in the final act. Although she never fully “comes out” of her shell, Trzebuchoska gives us enough hints and peeks beneath Anna’s seemingly serene facade to keep us constantly reminded that a real, live, flesh-and-blood woman resides beneath the habit.

Although I mentioned it earlier, it certainly bears repeating: Ryszard Lenczewski and Lukasz Zal’s cinematography is absolutely gorgeous. Full of crisp, boundless fields of white snow and deep, rich black tones, the film looks flawless and is an instant throwback (in the best possible way) to those aforementioned “golden-age” independent films. There’s a sense of quiet grandeur to the many exterior wide-shots that not only shows off the Polish countryside to great effect but also helps establish how “small” the characters are, in the grand scheme of things. Above all, Ida is an intensely visual film, something that marks a nice break from the usual overly verbal indie fare.

In every way, Ida is a subtle, quiet film: there is a mystery, of sorts, at its heart but that’s not really where Pawlikowski’s interest seems to lie. There are some fascinating tidbits that we get involving Wanda’s past, crumbs of information that hint at a truly terrifying, amazing backstory but none of this ever comes front-and-center, at least in any significant way. More than anything, Ida is a meditative film about the search for identity and how this is both an internal and external struggle: Anna’s quest to uncover the truth about her family may help her to learn “who” she is but it’s not until she turns her search inward and begins to examine her own heart and motivations that she learns the most important thing: “why.”

12/21/14: The Magic of Youth

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'80s punk rock, Alvin Strollo, Ann-Sofie Rase, Anna Rydgren, based on a graphic novel, best friends, Best of 2014, Bobo, Charlie Falk, cinema, coming of age, David Dencik, favorite films, film festival favorite, film reviews, films, foreign films, friends, girl power, growing up, Johan Liljemark, Jonathan Salomonsson, Klara, Lena Carlsson, Lily Moodysson, Liv LeMoyne, Lukas Moodysson, Mattias Wiberg, Mira Barkhammar, Mira Grosin, Movies, Peter Eriksson, punk rock, punk rockers, set in Stockholm, set in Sweden, set in the 1980's, Swedish films, teenagers, We Are the Best!, writer-director, young love, youth vs old age, youthful rebeliion

When you’re caught in the thick of it, adolescence pretty much sucks: your hormones are racing out of control, no one takes you seriously, romance is weird, adults are stupid, parents are worse, you just wanna get out there and live but everywhere you turn it’s just more rules and the only solution seems to be to blast your music as loud as you possibly can but it never seems to get loud enough to drown out all the fakers, phonies and assholes that seem to be everywhere you turn. It’s only once we get some wear under the engine and a few decades behind us that we fully understand what adolescence is: that one, pure chance to grab the brass ring with both hands and hold on for dear life before the world tries its hardest to grind you into dust.

Swedish writer-director Lukas Moodysson seems to understand this pretty well: his newest film, the unbelievably jubilant We Are the Best! (2013), isn’t just a love letter to teenage punk rockers or the long-gone ’80s…it’s a film about grabbing life with both hands, about making your own way in the world when none of the other options look great. It’s a film about friendships and first loves, about the awkward dance that boys and girls engage in because nothing makes sense but everything seems possible. It’s a film about standing out when everyone wants to fit in…about being one step behind pop culture because you like what you like, not what’s force-fed to you. It’s a film about how much girls rock (because they do), about how dumb boys can be (because they are) and about how clueless adults here (because they always will be). We Are the Best! isn’t just one of the best films of 2014 (although it is that, without a doubt): it’s also one of the very best films about adolescence ever made. We Are the Best? By the time the end credits roll, you won’t be in any mood to argue.

Set in Stockholm, Sweden, in 1982, We Are the Best! concerns the adventures of a pair of teenage best friends and fellow misfits, Bobo (Mira Barkhammar) and Klara (Mira Grosin). The two girls are outcasts in every sense of the word: they worship punk rock even though it’s “dead” (says the jaded purists who have since moved on to Joy Division), rock short, stubby haircuts and mohawks when the rest of the teen girls around them are showing off their long, lustrous hair and seem to exist in a world all their own. Picked on and bullied by those around them, male and female alike, and completely misunderstood by the bemused adults in their lives, Bobo and Klara only have each other but that definitely seems like more than enough to rule the world.

After an attempt to strike back at the shit-headed boys in teenage metal band Iron Fist results in them booking time in their school’s music rehearsal space, Klara and Bobo decide that they should go ahead and just start a band. As is often the case, neither girl can play an instrument but Klara divvies up the work anyway, assigning Bobo the drums and taking the bass as her weapon of choice. At first, the pair can do nothing more than bash meaninglessly on their instruments, whipping up the kind of din that GG Allin might approve of. Talent doesn’t really matter to them, however, since they really just want the opportunity to make their message heard: school sports suck and people should focus more time on starving kids and nuclear safety. Some things never change, eh?

Big change comes, however, when the girls happen to cross paths with another misfit: serious, pale, humorless and very Christian, Hedvig (Liv LeMoyne) seems like the last person the two young punk rockers would ever connect with. Just like them, however, Hedvig is an outcast at her school: during the annual talent show, she plays the Spanish guitar like an absolute wizard but still gets heckled and laughed at. Seeking a kindred spirit, as well as someone who can actually play an instrument, Bobo and Klara basically harass Hedvig until she joins their band and, by default, their little clique. Hedvig might not be much like her new friends but they give her the one thing she can’t get anywhere else: acceptance. As she begins to come out of her shell more, Hedvig starts to grow and develop as a person, right down to the terrifying/triumphant scene where Klara hacks Hedvig’s beautiful, long hair into spastic tufts on her head.

No coming-of-age story would be complete without a romance, however, which is just what Bobo and Klara get when they fall for the members of a local punk band. Young love is never easy, however, and when the boys’ attentions prove fickle, a gulf begins to grow between Bobo and Klara. Since she’s always lived in her friend’s shadow (Klara is the very definition of a force of nature), Bobo has never had the opportunity to shine on her own. As the girls prepare for their first public concert, in a rival town, however, tensions grow, cracks appear in the foundations of their relationship and they’ll all learn a very valuable lesson: when you have true friends, absolutely anything in the world is possible.

There’s so much great stuff to be found in Moodysson’s exuberant film that it’s a little hard to know where to start but let’s begin at the top: the triple threat of Mira Barkhammar, Mira Grosin and Liv LeMoyne as the three leads is so rock-solid, so damn perfect, that you just never want them to exit stage right at any point in the film. It’s hard to pick a standout, since each of them brings so much individuality to the table. Barkhammar brings so much co-mingled pain and sweetness to her portrayal of Bobo that the character feels utterly and completely alive: she never feels like the stereotypical “ugly duckling,” rather like an actual, deeply conflicted human being. For her part, Grosin’s Klara could have been a one-trick pony: brassy, abrasive and mouthy, Klara could have functioned as a sort of Bill Murray surrogate, someone to make wise-cracks and push her more demure partner into “discovering” herself. Instead, Klara is full of just as many contradictions, foibles and hang-ups as Bobo is. Some of the film’s very best scenes involve Klara’s extremely loving, supportive family: as is the wont of teenagers, Klara sees nothing but meddling and prying in their interactions with her but I dare you to wipe the smile off your face when her mother, little sister and father (on clarinet!) join in on their’s band’s jam session. Any other actor might have played Klara as too much of a petulant brat (and there is plenty of that here, to be sure) but Grosin finds the sweetness and sincerity to her “acting out.”

And then, of course, there’s LeMoyne: as the “straight arrow” that gets bent by Bobo and Klara, LeMoyne has the most pure “acting” to do and she’s absolutely killer. Nothing in her character is as simple as just “becoming” punk: the scene where she gets her hair cut is so amazing because we can actually see the conflicted emotions run across LeMoyne’s expressive face as if broadcast on a billboard. The filmmakers also make the wise move to never play her as a patsy for her Christian beliefs, an easy potshot in similar “young outsider” films: while Klara constantly ribs and teases Hedvig about her beliefs, LeMoyne’s calm, serene acceptance is a perfect, measured and, ultimately, very honest reaction. Moodysson could have played this for much more generic “tension,” but he realizes the key point that kids are both more and less accepting of others than their adult peers.

Lest it seem that Moodysson develops tunnel-vision regarding his young subjects, however, We Are the Best! makes plenty of time to deal with the adults in their world. Anna Rydgren is excellent as Bobo’s single mom, Lena: her fumbling attempts to re-enter the dating world mirror Bobo’s own blossoming into young womanhood and there’s some genuine poignancy to the scenes where Lena attempts to deal with the reappearance of Bobo’s father in their lives. There’s also really great work coming from Charlie Falk as Klara’s older brother, Linus, who’s left punk behind to focus on post-punk with the rest of his eternally bored friends. The scene where the girls get drunk and disrupt Linus’ party could have been as clichéd as they come, but Falk finds the perfect balance between Linus’ aloof attempts to be “cool” and his inherent responsibilities as a big brother.

Truth be told, however, all of the acting in We Are the Best! is pretty impeccable, as is the film-craft: Moodysson’s movie looks and sounds amazing, especially during the climatic concert set in the high-school gymnasium. Adapting his wife’s graphic novel, which recounts her own story growing up a punk in ’80s Stockholm, Moodysson turns in a tight, well-plotted and extremely clever film that manages to feature plenty of great dialogue without turning the kids into Juno clones. In fact, I daresay that the kids in We Are the Best! are just about the most authentic versions of such I’ve seen since the glory day of ’80s coming-of-age films like Stand By Me (1986) or The Goonies (1985).

Ultimately, We Are the Best! is one of those films that I can’t recommend enough: if you were ever young, at any point in your life, you will find something here to pull you in. Personally, as someone who grew up both a punk and an outcast, I found Moodysson’s film to be just about perfect. While the scene where the chauvinistic, condescending music teachers get their asses handed to them by Hedvig’s awe-inspiring display of fretboard mastery is one of the most badass I’ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing, the film’s true power can best be summed up in the scene where Hedvig plays an acoustic cover of Bobo and Klara’s favorite punk song. As her clear voice accompanies her gentle strumming, the audience is pulled into the same amazed trance that’s ensnared Bobo and Klara. As Hedvig gives voice to the angry, political sentiments in the song, we begin to feel her character make the transition from background to foreground. At its heart, We Are the Best! is a film about finding your voice and singing as hard and loud as you can, regardless of who’s listening or trying to hold you back.

While 2014 has been a pretty amazing year for film, all things considered, few movies have been this joyful, exuberant and full of life. Is We Are the Best! one of the best films of the year? Absolutely.

12/15/14 (Part Two): In the Kingdom of the Crow

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absentee father, bad schools, Best of 2014, Brandon Oakes, Canadian films, cinema, Cody Bird, coming of age, crooked government officials, death of a child, dramas, drug dealers, dysfunctional family, father-daughter relationships, favorite films, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, ghosts, Glen Gould, heist films, Indian agents, Indian Residential School, Jeff Barnaby, Kawennáhere Devery Jacobs, Mark Antony Krupa, Michel St. Martin, mother-daughter relationships, Movies, Nathan Alexis, Native Americans, Red Crow Indian Reservation, Rhymes For Young Ghouls, Roseanne Supernault, set in Canada, set in the 1970s, stolen money, strong female character, suicide, the Mi'kmaq, truancy officer, writer-director-editor

Every once in a while, a film comes completely out of nowhere and knocks me on my ass like a ghost train ripping through grand-pa’s house. It could be something I’ve never heard of, something that I’m not expecting to like or something that just completely blew away my expectations. While this has already been a pretty great year for film (compiling my Best of…lists has been harder than ever), leave it to one of the underdogs to sneak up and slap the complacency right off my stupid face. In this case, I’m talking about writer-director Jeff Barnaby’s feature-debut, the instantly classic Rhymes For Young Ghouls (2014). Only time will tell but, once the dust has settled, this may very well end up being in my Top Five of the year. Hell…it might even end up leading the parade.

Beginning in 1969 before jumping forward seven years, we find ourselves on the Red Crow Indian Reservation, in Canada. We first meet our hero, Aila, as a young girl (played by Miika Whiskeyjack). While her family life may not be the most conventional (her parents, Joseph (Glen Gould) and Anna (Roseanne Supernault), grow and sell marijuana with the help of Aila’s uncle, Burner (Brandon Oakes)), they seem like a loving family. After a night of drinking leads to a terrible tragedy, however, Aila’s life is torn asunder: with her brother dead, her father in prison and her mother a suicide victim, the poor girl’s life seems over before it begins.

Or it would, if Aila wasn’t such a completely kick-ass, resilient person. When we meet her seven years later, at the ripe-old age of 16 (played by the absolutely amazing Kawennahere Devery Jacobs), Aila is now running the grow operation on her own, with the able assistance of Burner and her friends, Sholo (Cody Bird) and Angus (Nathan Alexis). Completely self-assured and wise beyond her years, Aila is the glue that holds everything together, especially since her uncle is such a pothead wastoid. She’s a problem solver, a no-nonsense adult trapped in a teen’s body and she’s always quite the sight whenever she’s wearing her gas-mask and rolling her specialty blunts.

Along with running the operation, Aila and the others must also be wary of the odious, corrupt and infinitely shit-headed Indian agent, Popper (Mark Antony Krupa), who actually went to Catholic school with her now-imprisoned father. Popper runs the local “Indian Residential School,” a terrible place that’s more prison than educational establishment and where the kids are beaten and placed in solitary confinement at regular intervals. As we’re told at the beginning of the film, all Native American children between the ages of 5 and 16 are required to go to the school: truant officers (such as Popper) are authorized to use “whatever force is necessary” to get wayward kids back to school, including beating them senseless. The truant officers are also able to arrest, without warrant, any guardians who don’t make sure their kids go to school.

There’s always a loophole, however, especially when government officials are as evil and corrupt as the Indian agents: for a regular fee (a “truancy tax”), the truant officers will look the other way, allowing any kids who can pay the opportunity to run free. Thanks to her successful grow operation, Alia has always had plenty of money to pay the “taxes” for her and the others. When they end up losing all of their money in a trumped-up raid by Popper and his men, however, Alia is now facing the terrifying prospect of losing her freedom and individuality, all in one fell swoop. Things get even more chaotic when her father is finally released from prison and returns home, intent on being the father that he couldn’t be before. As he surveys the mass of drunk, stoned people crashing all over their house, however, the disappointment in Joseph’s voice is unmistakable: “How long has this been going on?,” he asks Alia. “About seven years,” she snaps back and the point is clear: if “dad” is expecting a Hallmark-style reunion, he better lose elsewhere.

With a host of outside forces closing in on her, Alia also must deal with her increasing nightmares, nightmares which feature her mother as a rotting zombie: since suicides are buried without grave markers, her mother is now “nameless” and stuck between the world of the dead and the world of the living. Facing pressure from all sides, Alia must do everything she can to avoid cracking and preserve the unity of her family. Popper won’t make any of it easy, however, which is just fine by her: as Alia learned long ago, sometimes the only thing you can do is put your head and charge forward, victory be damned. In the Kingdom of the Crow, no one is safe…least of all, the young.

Watching the film, I was frequently reminded of another showstopping dark-horse, Debra Granik’s stunning Winter’s Bone (2010), the film that first introduced the world to Jennifer Lawrence. Fitting, in a way, since Rhymes For Young Ghouls should serve to introduce us to yet another amazing young actor: Kawennahere Devery Jacobs. I don’t have praise enough for her performance but will say that I was completely and absolutely blown-away by her. If she’s not a huge star in 5 years or so, I’ll buy a haberdashery and eat every damn hat in the place.

Part of the sheer joy of the film is how completely unpredictable it is, so I’ll say as little about specifics as possible. Suffice to say that Barnaby’s killer script manages to seamlessly work in a heist subplot, as well as a beautifully-realized moment where Alia’s “grandmother” tells her a story and we see it visualized in a graphic-novel style. The film is in constant motion and is endlessly inventive, never dull or tedious. There’s also no sense of being force-fed emotional pabulum: the film deals with some very big issues (the stability of families; children caring for their parents; the suicide of a parent; institutionalized racism; class-warfare; traditional Native American ways versus the “modern world;” children working…it goes on and on, to be honest. Rhymes For Young Ghouls is one of the few films I’ve seen lately that actually feels important: these are issues that folks should be discussing and Barnaby’s film doesn’t shy from any of them.

From a filmmaking standpoint, Rhymes For Young Ghouls is nothing short of astounding. In fact, I daresay that a handful of sequences reminded me of nothing less than some of Scorcese’s best work: the opening slo-mo raid, in particular, was so fabulously “Scorcese” that I’m pretty sure I squealed in joy. There’s a synthesis of music and image that’s both flawless and extremely effective: one of the best, most subtle moments is the one where an angelic choir underscores a decidedly devious scene. Barnaby also traffics in a kind of magical-realism that can be pretty head-spinning: there were at least a few points in the film where I questioned the reality of what was happening, thanks to a combination of tricky camera-work and forced perspectives. Even divorced from its amazing cast and excellent script, Rhymes For Young Ghouls is one of the best looking, most well-realized film I’ve seen in ages.

At this point, all I can realistically continue to do is praise the film endlessly, so let me wrap it up thusly: Rhymes For Young Ghouls is a nearly perfect film, one that I absolutely can’t get out of my head after seeing it. While there are a handful of very minor issues spread throughout the film, overall, I absolutely adored it. This, as far as I’m concerned, is the reason we should all keep going to the movies and supporting strong, individualistic filmmakers. It’s almost impossible for me to believe that this is Barnaby’s debut, since it’s so self-assured and impressive. There’s not much time left in this year and I still have quite a few films to see but, if you’re a betting person, I’d wager money that you’ll see Rhymes For Young Ghouls on top of at least one of my lists. Watch the movie and I’m willing to bet that it’ll top your lists, too.