4/12/15 (Part Two): Framed to Fit Your Screen

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auteur theory, Bernat Vilaplana, cinema, cyber-terrorism, Elijah Wood, fame, fans, Film auteurs, films, films reviews, hackers, Jon D. Dominguez, Jorge Magaz, modern technology, Movies, Nacho Vigalondo, Neil Maskell, Open Windows, Sasha Grey, stalkers, stylish films, suspense, techno-thrillers, thrillers, Timecrimes, writer-director

As technology advances, so, too, has the way that we consume films. Gone are the days when “going to the movies” meant, literally, going out to see a movie: these days, audiences are just as likely to head into the living room and fire up the Roku as they are to drive to the multiplex when it comes to seeing new, first-run films. With video-on-demand offerings now equaling (and sometimes exceeding) what’s available in the theaters, to paraphrase the Bard, all the world’s on our computer screens and our Playstations are no longer merely players.

Few films have embraced this new era quite as ably, enthusiastically and downright entertainingly as Spanish auteur Nacho Vigalondo’s Open Windows (2014). Combining a complex, Hitchcockian plot with an appropriately glossy, techno-babble sheen, Vigalondo’s film takes place entirely within a series of on-screen computer windows. The result? One of the few films tailor-made for the way that many people will probably wind up watching it: an open window on their computer screen.

Wasting no time, we meet our erstwhile protagonist, Nick Chambers (Elijah Wood). He’s the earnest, clean-cut and rather nerdy webmaster of a fan site devoted to hot, young Hollywood “it-girl” Jill Goddard (Sasha Grey). Jill’s in the middle of a press junket for her newest soon-to-be-blockbuster, Dark Sky, a glowing-eyed-mutant epic that probably wouldn’t be out-of-place on a real-life multiplex marquee. Nick is pleased as punch because he’s just won a dinner date with Jill, a bit of happenstance that pretty much validates the entirety of his life.

Sweet turns to shit, however, when Nick gets a phone call from Chord (Neil Maskell), an employee with the company sponsoring Nick’s contest. Turns out that Jill has unceremoniously cancelled the event at the last minute, giving no reason and leaving Nick stranded without so much as a “how do ya do.” Nick is crushed but Chord offers him a bit of a band-aid: he hacks Nick into Jill’s personal electronic devices, giving the super-fan unprecedented access to entire life.

Declining to give in to Chord’s baser urging, Nick soon finds himself embroiled in a complex plan that seems to be spiraling ever faster and faster out of control. As Chord reveals himself to be less of a helpful perv and more of an evil genius, Nick must do everything he can to clear his own name, protect his beloved Jill and get to the bottom of the intricate game. He’ll have to be smart, however: Chord is brutal, ruthless and five steps ahead of him…one wrong move and it’s game over.

Despite coming off the rails in the final half hour, Open Windows is one of the most exhilarating, ingenious and flat-out fun films to come down the pike in quite some time. When the film is really firing on all cylinders, which is quite often, there’s a relentless sense of forward momentum that makes it all but impossible to blink, lest you miss some sort of background detail or bit of action. At times, the action is split between as many as 16 separate windows, making for the kind of dizzying “split-screen” action that ’60s cop shows could only dream about. It all works spectacularly well, maintaining a sense of cohesion that tiptoes the line between chaos and order but never slips into the abyss.

As someone who absolutely loved Vigalondo’s brilliant feature debut, Timecrimes (2007), I’ve eagerly awaited each new film with the kind of zeal normally reserved for children and cake. For my money, the writer-director is one of the smartest, freshest talents currently operating, a filmmaker who’s just one, big break away from becoming the next del Toro. While Open Windows isn’t quite that film, it is the kind of break-neck thriller that should move Nacho closer to that ever-present world domination.

Open Windows is a tricky film: similar to the way in which one might be rushed through a haunted house attraction, the audience is rushed through Vigalondo’s film, jerking to a halt only long enough to give the carriage a change to climb the rise and plummet down the next heart-stopping fall. It’s a setpiece-based film in that we are, essentially, watching bite-sized chunks of narrative played out before us in a multitude of various formats, each segment the equivalent of a video vignette we might peruse on Youtube. That the whole thing manages to come together into a complete whole (final thirty notwithstanding) is nothing short of a minor miracle. By its very nature, Open Windows is a film that should have been way too chaotic, disjointed, contrived and gimmicky to ever work: Vigalondo spins the various elements into pure gold.

While the film’s technical prowess and editing is duly impressive (cinematographer Jon D. Dominguez and editor Bernat Vilaplana deserve special mention for keeping everything as clear as they do), none of it would work without a sympathetic lead and Elijah Wood is more than up for the task. In the same way that Hitchcock had Stewart, Vigalondo uses Wood’s natural charisma and boyish Everymanism to keep our interest and sympathy fully on his side, even as the film twists and turns into some suitably dark places. Over the last few years, Wood has quietly become one of my very favorite actors, the kind of chameleonic performer who’s equally at home with the monstrosity of Maniac (2012) and the traditional heroism of Grand Piano. He’s the kind of performer who can draw me to a production on name alone and his work, here, is easily on par with his best. Between his work in genre films (I eagerly await his upcoming killer-kids film Cooties (2015)) and his production company, Elijah Wood is a bit of a modern genre hero and I, for one, salute him.

While Neil Maskell (incredibly fun as Banksy in Doghouse (2009)) makes a suitably sleazy villain, the real surprise is porn star-turned actress Grey. After making her “legitimate” film debut in Soderbergh’s The Girlfriend Experience (2009), Grey would pop up in other film, from time to time, although Open Windows marks her biggest role since her debut. She’s quite good here: her fiery interview segment is an easy highlight and she manages to imbue Jill with the perfect mixture of aloof and vulnerable, an impossibly famous person who just wants to be invisible. While the majority of the film’s heavy lifting falls on Wood’s shoulders, Grey proves that she deserves more chances to show her dramatic chops.

For all of its numerous charms and positives, Open Windows is certainly not a perfect film: to be honest, it’s not even a better film than Vigalondo’s debut. Due to the necessary complexity of the storyline, credibility is eventually strained to the point where plot-holes became to rip through the surface with alarming frequency. There’s one point where Chord guides Nick from a hotel room into a car and onto the open road: it’s decidedly kickass but think about any one bit of it too long and the whole thing falls like bad souffle. The film also picks up speed to the point where plot elements blow by in the rearview mirror faster than one can register them.

When all is said and done, however, Open Windows is an undeniably good film. With astute observations on everything from the nature of modern fandom to the vagaries of internet fame to the difficulties of going “off the grid” in a world that’s perpetually connected, Vigalondo has plenty to say and this ends up being the perfect platform for him to say it. While I doubt that I’ll see another take quite as good as Vigalondo’s anytime soon (done poorly, I can only imagine that Open Windows would have been a kitschy, glitchy, head-inducing nightmare), this has definitely made me more receptive to this kind of thing in the future. While I’ll always be a fan of huge, sweeping cinema, Open Windows is proof that, sometimes, it’s just fine to watch something sized to fit your screen.

3/5/15: Hail To the Freaks

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bands, Best of 2014, bittersweet, Captain Beefheart, Carla Azar, Chris Sievey, cinema, co-writers, dark comedies, disguises, Domhnall Gleeson, dramas, dysfunctional family, entertainment community, experimental music, fame, favorite films, film reviews, films, foreign films, François Civil, Frank, Frank Sidebottom, Frank Zappa, Hayley Derryberry, hidden identities, inspired by true events, Irish films, James Mather, Jon Ronson, Leonard Abrahamson, Maggie Gyllenhaal, mainstream vs counter culture, masks, mental illness, Michael Fassbender, Movies, music-based films, musicians, outsider art, outsiders, Peter Straughan, pop music, Scoot McNairy, Shane O'Brien, social media, Stephen Rennicks, voice-over narration, Wes Anderson

Do true musicians create for themselves, alone, or is there always some sort of audience in mind? It’s a question that’s probably plagued the entertainment community since the first humans discovered that banging rocks in syncopated fashion caused people to get up, get down and get a little crazy. As music gradually moved from a pure art form into a commodity as readily quantifiable as real estate holdings, the question has become even more prescient: where, exactly, is the dividing line between art and product?

Is it even possible for musicians to create purely for the sake of creativity or is a marketing angle necessary regardless of how “experimental” or “outre” you are? Would past geniuses like Frank Zappa, Captain Beefheart or Einstürzende Neubauten even be able to get a foothold in our current musical climate or would they be instantly written off and discarded for being too “uncommercial” or “difficult to sell”? And what, exactly, does it say about us if everything nowadays must come with a price tag? Art for art’s sake? Not on our watch, bub!

Leonard Abrahamson’s Frank (2014) takes a look at some of these questions, although it’s not as interested in the answers as it is in positing more questions: To whom, exactly, does an artist’s music belong? Does it belong exclusively to that artist? To their fans? Their critics? The world at large? Is it more important to stay true to one’s “vision” and languish in obscurity or is compromise necessary in order to insure that at least some part of an artist’s meaning makes it out, even in an unintended form? What responsibility do musicians have towards their fans and vice versa? Do the wants and desires of the masses outweigh and override the needs of the individual artist? And, perhaps most importantly: what responsibility do audiences owe severely “damaged” artists? If the very act of creating leads to mental distress for the musician, is it proper (or even moral) for the rest of us to consume said product?

Loosely based on Jon Ronson’s book about his tenure with Frank Sidebottom (aka Chris Sievey) in the ’80s, Abrahamson’s film combines elements of the enigmatic performance artist (known for wearing a giant, fake head at all times) with aspects of Captain Beefheart’s eclectic, “everything and the kitchen sink” recording process to come up with the perfect outsider artist. By updating the action to the present day, Frank also allows for some rather piercing insight into the ways in which things like social media help to shed light on previously unknown performers, for better or (in the this case) much worse. Through it all, however, one thought remains clear over all others: some people are just out of step with their era, regardless of what era that happens to be.

Our entry into the story is young Jon (Domhnall Gleeson), an aspiring singer-songwriter-keyboardist who still lives with his parents, is constantly on Twitter and seems to spend the majority of his time walking around, writing spontaneous songs about any and everything he sees. As luck would have it, Jon lands a gig with a touring band after their keyboardist, Lucas (Shane O’Brien) tries to drown himself in the sea. The band’s name is unpronounceable, their music sounds like an atonal, experimental jam (including theremin!) and their frontman, Frank (Michael Fassbender) wears a giant paper-mache head as he rants, raves and performs what seems to be some sort of stream-of-conscious manifesto. Needless to say, Jon is fascinated by the group and thrilled when he gets the call to join them, full-time, as their new keyboardist.

Once in the band, Jon finds himself smack dab in the middle of a fairly unique group of individuals: Clara (Maggie Gyllenhaal), the theremin player, is almost impossibly angry and seems to hate Jon with absolute zeal; Don (Scoot McNairy), Frank’s right-hand man, spent time in a mental hospital and used to “fuck mannequins”; Baraque (François Civil) and Nana (Carla Azar) don’t speak English and dress as if they just stepped out of a French New Wave film. And Frank…oh, my…Frank. Our titular fellow is a complete mystery, a soft-spoken, well-reasoned musical prodigy who just happens to operate on a completely different wavelength from the rest of the world. His perception of “normal” is so skewed that when Jon asks him for a more “mainstream” song,at one point, his contribution still sounds like some form of mutant Martian national anthem.

Things go from “absurd” to “very difficult” in no time flat after the group convenes in an isolated cabin (on a deserted island, to boot) in order to record their album. As Jon tries to push the group into a more “mainstream” direction, Clara and the others push back with all their might: only Frank seems bemused enough to want to give it a shot. Frank’s idea of “normal,” however, is about as abnormal as it gets and Jon begins to dread the group’s upcoming performance at a South By Southwest music showcase: will Frank’s decidedly cracked psyche be able to handle not only the trip to America but the exposure to a (presumably) new audience or will Clara need to make good on her promise to stab Jon if he “fucks up America for them?” As their situation gets stranger, more strained and more precarious, Jon will gradually come to realize that some artists really are better off in the margins, away from the blinding-white spotlight of public perception.

In every way possible, Leonard Abrahamson’s Frank is a love letter to the weirdos, the freaks and the dreamers of our world, those individuals who follow their own drummer and, in the process, create so much indelible, amazing art for the rest of us to enjoy, puzzle over, debate, love and hate. Operating within a production style that handily recalls that other great lover of the misfits, Wes Anderson, Frank is a colorful, quirky, odd and utterly endearing film, packed with great performances and some nicely nuanced commentary about this crazy era we find ourselves in.

As a biopic of the original Frank Sidebottom, it’s difficult to gauge how well Frank hits its mark: as someone who’s only peripherally aware of the Sidebottom character, it’s pretty impossible for me to determine how “accurate” any of this is. On the other hand, I’m familiar enough with outre artists like Captain Beefheart to recognize bits and pieces of their history in the film, leading me to believe this is more of a melange than anything approaching a straight-forward biography. If anything, I’m sure that the character of Frank Sidebottom provided the filmmakers with a readily identifiable outside artist to reference, as well as giving the film its visual hook (that big, fake head is pretty unforgettable, after all).

By updating the action to the present day, Abrahamson, Ronson and co-writer Peter Straughan are able to make plenty of astute observations about the ways in which social media help to fuel (or, in some cases, create) a performer’s career. Despite never playing a single gig in the U.S., Frank and the others (supposedly) have a ready-made audience waiting for them, thanks to Jon’s numerous Twitter and Youtube updates on the band’s recording process. It doesn’t matter that their music is highly experimental and unlikely to appeal to the “average” music festival fan: social media hype turns everything into an “event,” even if for only a minute or two. As Jon comes to discover, however, interest in “hype” is much different from actual interest in something: hype is what gets bodies in the seats but it’s no guarantee that they’ll stay there.

There’s also plenty of interesting discussions on the dangers of exposing “vulnerable” artists to a larger, uncaring audience. As we come to know Frank better, it’s painfully obvious that he’s a deeply troubled, possible mentally disturbed, individual.  This, of course, doesn’t stop Jon from trying to expose him to a larger audience: as a “true fan,” Jon feels that he has an obligation to expose his heroes to as many people as possible. As a similarly hardcore fan of music, I know exactly what he’s feeling: if I had a penny for every time I tried to expose someone to challenging, experimental or “difficult” music, I’d own most of the planet’s uninhabited islands, by this point.

While there are plenty of great performances in the film (Gyllenhaal and McNairy are particularly great), they all tend to orbit around Gleeson and Fassbender’s twin planetary spheres. Gleeson is quickly establishing himself as one of this generation’s finest actors, as handily capable of portraying sweet naivety as he is petulant bullheadedness. In other hands, Jon might have come out a much different character: too much “nice” and he’s a lunk-headed bit of stage property…too much avarice and he’s an unrepentant creep. In Glesson’s hands, however, Jon is nothing if not complex: we come to understand not only his over-riding desire for fame and recognition, at any cost, but also his genuine love and affection for Frank and his band. The last thing that Jon would ever want to do is destroy the group that he loves so much which, ironically, makes his inevitable destruction of said band so genuinely sad.

For his part, Fassbender works wonders with just his voice and body language: Frank’s fake head could have come across as just another gimmick but there’s never the sense that Fassbender takes the performance as anything less than deadly serious. It would have been incredibly easy to turn Frank into a childish symbol of innocence and purity but Fassbender is always able to keep the character fully grounded, even during the film’s more whimsical moments. For as often as the film builds genuine laughs and humor from the character of Frank, it just as often frames him in a poignant, bittersweet way that never fails to remind us of his ultimate situation: this isn’t just a quirky weirdo…this is a real, damaged individual whose unblinking mask hides a wealth of fear, insanity, confusion and sorrow. While Fassbinder has been a reliable presence in films for a good decade, at this point, Frank is one of his most subtle, vibrant creations yet. The moment where we finally see him, sans mask, is a real gut-punch and Fassbender deserves much of the credit for that.

Frank is a helluva film, no two ways about it. While there’s plenty of humor here (the scenes where the band tries to record their album are all great, as are any of the ones where Clara threatens to commit grievous bodily injury to Jon), the film has a solid emotional core that leads to some incredibly powerful moments. By the time we get to the hushed, intimate finale that features a band reunion in a scrappy pool hall, it’s pretty obvious that Frank is an exceptional piece of filmcraft. Whether you love music, love outsiders, love a rags-to-riches-to-rags story or just love good films, Frank should be right up your alley.

If nothing else, the film should give anyone pause for thought whenever they consider their favorite “unknown” artist: we might want the whole world to celebrate them, just like we do…but what would they actually want? Chances are, if they’re anything like Frank, they just want the chance to live their lives, in their world, under their own terms.

1/1/15 (Part One): Hollywood Meat Grinder

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Adam Bricker, Alexandra Essoe, Amanda Fuller, Astraeus, casting couch, cinema, co-directors, co-writers, Dennis Widmyer, Fabianne Therese, fame, Fautian deals, film reviews, films, Hollywood, horror, horror movies, insanity, Kevin Kolsch, Los Angeles, Louis Dezseran, Marc Senter, Maria Olsen, Movies, Natalie Castillo, Nick Simmons, Noah Segan, occult, Pat Healy, Sarah Walker, Satanism, selling your soul, Shane Coffey, starlets, Starry Eyes, The Fly

Just how far would you go to be a star? For some folks, the idea of fame doesn’t have much appeal: they’re more than happy to conduct their business from the sidelines, keeping cool while someone else burns under the spotlight. For others, however, the pursuit of fame is all-encompassing, a never-ending quest for that fabled brass ring, that opportunity to stand on the world stage, hold their heads up high and shout, “Here I am,” to bask in adulation, admiration and envy from the masses. We live in an era where people can become famous, if only briefly, for seemingly capricious reasons: one person uploads a YouTube video and receives a million views…their next-door-neighbor does the same thing and hears crickets. Despite how important fame is for so many people, there is no such thing as a “sure thing,” no unbeatable formula to becoming a star.

But what if there was? What if there was some way to ensure your celebrity, some sure-fire way to “jump the line,” as it were, and go straight to the “adoring fans” stage? If fame is so important, would you give up everything in your life – your friends, your family, any interests – in order to guarantee your 15 minutes in the spotlight? Just how much would you be willing to give up to be a star? Your morality? Your dignity? Your soul? These are the questions that get asked in Kevin Kolsch and Dennis Widmyer’s Starry Eyes (2014), a Faustian tale of one young starlet’s search for fame and the hideous price that she pays to finally see her name on the big marquee. The answers won’t surprise horror fans but they might give budding ingenues pause for thought as they continue their own quests for immortality and fame. Spoiler alert: these things never go as planned.

Our wannabe starlet is Sarah Walker (Alexandra Essoe), a bright-eyed, hopeful and rather naive young actress who spends her days wearing hot-pants at Big Tators (think a sleazier version of Hooters) and her evenings going to one audition after the other, all in pursuit of that fabled “big break.” Her manager, Carl (Pat Healey), is a chauvinistic jerk, her “friends” are a bunch of catty, privileged and unbelievably shallow assholes (all of whom are, likewise, hunting for fame and fortune) and the limelight seems impossibly far away. All of this seems to change, however, when Sarah receives a call to audition for mysterious production company Astraeus Pictures’ newest film, The Silver Scream. Could this finally be the break that she’s so desperately looking for?

After a terrible audition, Sarah heads right to the bathroom and promptly throws the kind of fit usually reserved for young children or mental patients: screaming, sobbing, tearing huge chunks of hair out of her head and throwing herself about, Sarah is interrupted by one of Astraeus’ casting agents. Perhaps they’ve missed something “special” after all: Sarah is invited back, with one caveat – she has to throw the same fit for the casting agents. She does and is rewarded with yet another call-back. As Sarah continues to meet with the representatives from Astraeus Pictures, the auditions get stranger and stranger, culminating in a meeting with The Producer (Louis Dezseran) where all of the cards are laid on the table: the coveted lead role is Sarah’s…provided she takes her spot on the casting couch, that is.

Mortified by the “offer,” Sarah rushes out and resigns herself to becoming a star “the right way.” Her roommate, Tracy (Amanda Fuller), seconds Sarah’s outrage: none of them would ever sink that low, so there’s no reason Sarah should, either. After realizing that she’ll never break into their tight-knit clique, however, Sarah begins to reevaluate the offer from Astraeus: she calls them back and is offered one more chance to “meet” with The Producer. As Sarah will find out, however, everything has a price and she will have to trade in one small thing in her pursuit for fame: her basic humanity.

Expertly crafted, Starry Eyes is the kind of well-made, full-throttle B-movie that used to choke video store shelves in the ’80s horror boom: the kicker, of course, is that the film is from 2014, not 1983, making it yet another in the boom of modern genre films that explicitly reference other eras. Despite being part of a larger stylistic trend, however, Starry Eyes holds its own: in many ways, it’s much closer to Ti West’s excellent The House of the Devil (2009) in that the film always “feels” like a period piece, without seeming like slavish imitation. Chalk it up to a mix of Adam Bricker’s cinematography, the film’s themes or its structure but Starry Eyes is one of the most authentic “non-authentic” genre films I’ve seen in some time.

At its heart, however, Kolsch and Widmyer’s film isn’t much more than another variation on the age-old Faust story, albeit one that manages to throw elements of Cronenberg’s gooey The Fly (1986) and the batshit Jeff Lieberman oddity Blue Sunshine (1978) into the mix. Despite a suitably unpredictable (and ridiculously gory) climax, Starry Eyes hits each and every expected beat for this type of story: someone makes a Faustian deal to acquire fame/fortune/power/knowledge, comes to regret their decision after the real “cost” is revealed. As far as the film goes, that’s pretty much it: the “Hollywood starlet/casting couch” aspect doesn’t mix things up much, although everything is wrapped-up in a suitably cohesive way by the conclusion.

If co-writers/directors Kolsch and Widmyer don’t do much new or unique with the formula, however, they also don’t make any obvious missteps. The film looks and sounds great, for one thing, and the frequent digressions into more visual stylistic tics are highly effective: there’s a really well-done drug-trip scene and the finale is wonderfully creepy and atmospheric, sort of a split between the aforementioned Blue Sunshine and one of Val Lewton’s classics. The filmmaking duo has style to spare and there’s a sense of economy to the film that quite nice: it feels like its own small, self-contained world, which is a nice change of pace in this day and age of “everything’s connected.” The acting is decent enough, with veteran character actor Healey bringing a little nuance to his performance as Carl (he could have just been a complete scuzzball but you actually end up feeling for him, a little) and Essoe doing good (if occasionally one-note) work as the aspiring starlet. I found myself actively hating all of Sarah’s friends, however, which probably had as much to do with the script establishing them as worthless twits as it did with the actual performances. That being said, it was impossible for me to get invested in any of their fates, which robbed the finale of some of its awful power: suffice to say, my mourning period was non-existent.

From a horror standpoint, Starry Eyes is exceptionally solid: despite the story’s inherent familiarity, there’s a reason why Faust has always played so well on the big screen and Kolsch and Widmyer manage to wring every last drop of dread and inevitability out of the scenario. The practical effects are actually quite exceptional, with some truly ghastly body horror stuff in the final reel and the single most intense head-smashing scene I’ve ever seen, including the infamous fire extinguisher scene from Irreversible (2002). I’m not normally one to dwell on gore in films (by this point in my life, you could say that I’m a little jaded) but that head-pounding setpiece really is a showstopper, in every sense of the word, and proof positive that the filmmakers have no problem going to some very extreme places.

All in all, I really liked Starry Eyes, even though there wasn’t anything particularly special about it. In certain ways, it reminded me of another retro-minded film, Almost Human (2013): while, likewise, well-made and massively entertaining, it was really nothing more than an enjoyable, direct-to-video B-movie. Perhaps my affinity for and slight (very slight) disregard of Starry Eyes come from the same place: I grew up on movies just like these, good but not amazing horror and genre films that were massively entertaining but largely disposable. If anything, I wish that there were a lot more films like this: I certainly wouldn’t object to a glut of well-made, effective genre films, even if none of them are mind-blowing or game-changing. Without a doubt, Starry Eyes is effective and extremely atmospheric: it compares favorably with the best horror films of the year on quality alone, even if it never takes that “big step” that would vault it above the competition. I liked it enough to anticipate Kolsch and Widmyer’s next project: if they keep mining this same vein of retro-minded horror, I have a feeling that they’ll come up with a real firecracker next time.

 

12/11/14: Logical, Phallus-y

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Arctic Circle, Canadian films, cinema, co-directors, documentaries, eccentric people, fame, film reviews, films, Icelandic Phallological Museum, Jonah Bekhor, legacy, life's work, Movies, national pride, Páll Arason, penis museum, phallus, set in Iceland, Siggi Hjartarson, Sigurður Hjartarson, The Final Member, Tom Mitchell, Zach Math

Calling The Final Member (2012) “the best documentary ever made about a penis museum” seems a little unnecessary since, to the best of my knowledge, it’s also the only documentary ever made about a penis museum. While the Icelandic Phallological Museum and its creator/curator, Sigurður (Siggi) Hjartarson, may be the subject of Jonah Bekhor and Zach Math’s massively entertaining film, the actual focus is a little trickier and more universal: the endless quest for fame, in our modern world, and the lengths to which ordinary folks will go to make sure that the history books don’t forget them. Aging Icelandic adventurer Páll Arason and eccentric American Tom Mitchell, as we’ll see, are both prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice in order to help Siggi finish his collection: in order to secure ever-lasting notoriety, the two men vie to be the “final member” added to Siggi’s museum of mammal specimens…the human specimen.

Siggi Hjartarson is quite the interesting character. 40 years ago, Siggi was given a bull-penis walking stick as a gag gift and, to continue the “joke,” began to collect various other penis specimens. In short time, Siggi’s “joke” became a hobby which morphed into a bona fide collection which, once it had outgrown the modest confines of the Hjartarson household, became an honest-to-god museum. The Icelandic Phallological Museum, which opened its doors in August of 1997, still stands (as far as I know) as the only museum in the world dedicated strictly to the mammalian phallus in all of its myriad forms. From the very largest sample (a sperm whale) to the very smallest (a hamster), Siggi built his collection up until (according to him), he was only missing one last penis: a human one. Since donating human organs is a much more complex business than acquiring animal samples, Siggi has dealt with one frustration after another, always agonizingly close to finishing off his work of nearly a half-century but, alas, no cigar.

The winds of fortune seem to blow his way, however, when local legend Páll Arason agrees to donate his penis to the museum once he dies. Arason was an adventurer who achieved some measure of fame in the ’40s and seems to have coasted on his laurels for the resulting decades: he’s also a self-proclaimed Lothario who claims to have slept with over 300 women (not counting prostitutes), making his penis something of a celebrity, in its own right. Siggi is overjoyed: not only will he be able to finish his collection, at long last, but he can do so with a specimen that will really make his country proud: go team!

When it rains, it pours, however, and Siggi’s good luck turns into an embarrassment of riches when American Tom Mitchell contacts him and wants to offer his own “donation.” Unlike the aged Arason, Mitchell is…shall we say…more than a bit eccentric: he’s named his penis “Elmo,” wants to make it famous in its own right (via a comic book, if possible), enjoys dressing it up in costumes and sending the pictures to poor Siggi (the George Washington get-up must be seen to be believed…talk about a dick-head!) and has some very distinct ideas about presentation. He also wants to make his donation before he dies, for some rather complex but no less odd reasons, and is eager to be the first such donor anywhere: in other words, Tom really wants this, man!

Stuck between two “suitors,” Siggi must steer through some pretty choppy waters as he tries to make his decision: Arason’s penis would be the preferred one, for matters of national pride, if nothing else, but it’s also considerably smaller than Mitchell’s, and wouldn’t be as good a specimen. There’s also the matter of timing: Mitchell is ready whenever he can make up his mind about presentation issues but poor Arason has to, you know, die first, which is kind of a bummer. On the other hand, Mitchell is quickly driving Siggi to distraction with his endless phone calls, letters and penis pictures: at one point, Siggi solemnly tells the camera, “This is a funny guy…I’ve never met anyone like him before” and there’s no way we can disagree with him…Tom is a genuinely strange guy, even if he seems like a polite one.

As time drags on and Siggi’s health becomes an issue, he becomes more and more eager to finish his lifework, even if it means making some uncomfortable decisions. Will he go with the local hero and make his countrymen proud or will he opt for the more difficult, if “impressive” foreigner? Will Siggi ever finish his collection or will he be doomed to stare at that one, empty display case for the rest of his days? Who will end up being “the final member?”

Subject-matter notwithstanding, The Final Member is actually a pretty breezy, easy-going documentary full of gentle humor, some interesting observations on the human condition and some truly unique characters that have the added benefit of being real. While the film may, nominally, be about Siggi’s hunt for the human specimen, it’s actually about Páll and Tom’s hunts for immortality: both men want to leave something behind to insure that they’re not forgotten, something that will help cinch their spot in the record books…what better way than to be the first (and, presumably, only) human specimen in the world’s only penis museum? Take that, Guinness Book of World Records yo-yo champion! In an era where it seems that everyone is looking for their 15 minutes of fame (or 15 seconds, if that’s all they can snag), there’s definitely something universal about watching two individuals try to get theirs, regardless of the end results: even Siggi is looking for his own kind of immortality, in a way, by leaving behind his one-of-a-kind collection…no one is immune from the “fame” bug, it seems.

As a documentary, The Final Member is extremely well-made: full of bright, vibrant cinematography, interesting “talking head” interviews with various academics regarding the history of the phallus and the penis’ place in modern society and fascinating characters, there, literally, isn’t a dull spot to be found in the entire film. I’ve often felt that the average moviegoers tends to view all documentaries as dull, stuffy, “egghead” fare, despite the fact that docs come in just as many flavors as fictional films: The Final Member is certainly the film to prove the naysayers wrong, as there’s absolutely nothing stuffy or pretentious about the subjects or filmmaking. If anything, Bekhor and Math tell the story in as straight-forward a way as possible: no need to gussy anything up when the material is already so quirky and odd.

At the end of the day, The Final Member is a really fun, interesting film (if occasionally a little sad) that’s going to end up being a tough sell for a lot of folks: if it wasn’t already clear from the subject matter and preceding discussion, the film is chock full of penises, from the very first frame to the very last one. Not only do we see the most dizzying collection of animal penises ever (I can honestly say that I’d never thought about the subject of animal penises one way or the other but The Final Member pretty much makes that moot) but we also get plenty of shots of Páll and Tom’s respective “manhood,” whether it be the scene where Páll gets a cast made, for measurement purposes (apparently, there’s a “legal minimum length” in Iceland, which sounds like it would make its own fascinating film) or the one where Tom feels patriotic and gets his tattooed in red, white and blue (yeah…wow).

If you’re the kind of person who has any hangups regarding the nude human body (or the nude animal body, for that matter), this is absolutely not the film for you, in any way, shape or form. Mark my words: you will see the “full monty” on multiple occasions. If, however, you’re the kind of person who is fascinated by niche subjects, odd characters and truly unique ideas, then The Final Member will be right up your alley. While I never could have dreamed that a film which features wall-to-wall phalluses could be “whimsical,” Bekhor and Math’s film is just that. By the time it was over, I found myself not only rooting for Siggi, but generally liking the guy, as well. There’s a lot to be said for someone who sticks to their guns and does whatever needs to be done to finish a project, no matter how difficult or time-consuming. Will I be booking a flight to go check out the Icelandic Phallological Museum? Not anytime soon, to be honest, but I’m sure as hell glad that it exists and that there are still dreamers like Siggi, Páll and Tom to help make this globe of ours a little more interesting.

3/1/14: Six Degrees From Everybody (Oscar Bait, Part 12)

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20 Feet From Stardom, 2013 Academy Awards, 86th Annual Academy Awards, backup singers, Best Feature Documentary nominee, Best Feature Documentary winner, Bruce Springsteen, Darlene Love, documentaries, documentary, fame, Gimme Shelter, Janice Pendarvis, Joe Cocker, Lisa Fischer, Merry Clayton, music documentaries, Sheryl Crow, stardom, Sting, Tata Vega, The Rolling Stones

In this day and age, it seems that Warhol’s maxim about everyone getting 15 minutes of fame is seen as more of a cultural imperative than an amusing observation. There is nothing that modern society seems to appreciate more than a good rags-to-riches story…unless it’s a good rags-to-riches-to-rags story, of course. We like to see the underdog make good, at least in a safe, controlled, acceptable environment. We enjoy seeing the unsung hero step from the shadows and into the limelight, taking the long-coveted solo that will allow them to leave behind the workaday drudge of the 9-5 and ascend into that truest pantheon of modern gods: the “star.” Unfortunately, this doesn’t often (or even rarely) happen outside of televised game shows and the reality is usually a bit less glittery: in most cases, we’re lucky if we can get…20 Feet From Stardom.

As someone whose twin loves have always been film and music, music-based documentaries are definitely a weak point for me. At their best, music documentaries can shed new insight on artists I enjoy (along with a few that I don’t), all while giving me a generous helping of good music. At their worst, music documentaries will still (usually) supply plenty of good listening, even if the format may be too musty (talking heads, not to be confused with The Talking Heads) or too frustrating (poorly shot footage, inane commentary). In the vast majority of cases, however, music documentaries will still only cover the headlining star: very little insight is usually given to such things as the touring crew, back-stage personnel, backing band (if a solo artist) or backup singers. The Oscar-nominated documentary 20 Feet From Stardom attempts to rectify this oversight, at least a little, by focusing on those unsung purveyors of the doo-do-doo: backup singers.

When discussing a field as seemingly broad as background singers, it helps to narrow the focus a bit and the doc does so by focusing on a handful of different backup singers, chief among them Janice Pendarvis, Darlene Love, Merry Clayton, and Tata Vega, although some time is also spent with The Waters Family, Judith Hill, Lisa Fischer, Claudia Lennear, and Mable John, ensuring that there’s a pretty wide cross-section of singers represented. There’s also plenty of commentary from stars who regularly utilize backup singers, including Bruce Springsteen, Sting, The Rolling Stones and Sheryl Crow (herself a former backup singer). Springsteen makes an interesting statement that serves as one of the documentaries two main points: it takes a certain kind of person to make the leap from the background to the foreground and not all singers are equally suited for the task. The other main point is equally important, although rather obvious to music fans: background singers have shaped, guided and enhanced the music we listen to practically since the creation of recorded pop music, even if they seldom get any sort of recognition for it.

20 Feet From Stardom is a brisk, interesting documentary that offers up several good stories and anecdotes about the recording process behind certain timeless songs. Merry Clayton discusses how she recorded the backup parts for the Rolling Stones’ “Gimme Shelter” at 2AM, with a robe on and curlers in her hair. Janice Pendarvis uses the line “And the colored girls go…: from Lou Reed’s “Walk on the Wild Side” to make a case for black, female empowerment. Luther Vandross was one of David Bowie’s “Young American” singers. Joe Cocker’s spastic dance moves and gentlemanly attitude are discussed, along with an aside about Ray Charles that makes him seem like a jerk. It’s a dizzying array of information and, at times, the film’s structure can suffer just a bit from the overload. At times, 20 Feet From Stardom resembles nothing so much as a series of loosely connected stories about the music business told from the perspective of career insiders.

There is a point to the film, however, aside from the dispersal of interesting information. 20 Feet From Stardom makes a good case for the way that backup singers have been under-represented and marginalized over the years. In the extreme cases, such as with situations where backup singer vocals have been used and sold as “main” vocals without proper compensation, it can even be seen how backup singers have been denied the ability to properly earn and “rise through the ranks,” as it were. It’s quite sobering to see the stacks of unsold solo albums that most of the discussed backup singers have produced: only Lisa Fischer and Darlene Love seemed to have success with their solo careers at all.

Ultimately, as a music fan, I enjoyed 20 feet from Stardom quite a bit. The film was filled with fun anecdotes, some great vintage performance clips and some interesting interviews with the key players. It was brisk, flowed well and featured a few larger themes to center the (sometimes) overwhelming factoids being dropped everywhere.  Were this not an Oscar nominated film, I would find myself enjoying this and not thinking much about it later. As one of the five nominees for Best Documentary Feature in 2013, however, 20 Feet From Stardom was automatically elevated into a slightly different category, forcing me to view it a little more critically. As such, I actually found it to be one of the weakest of the five nominees, ahead only of Dirty Wars, which was rather flawed. Imagine my surprise, then, when 20 Feet From Stardom went on to win the coveted gold statue the night of the awards. If anything, I suppose that this just proves my earlier point: our societal fascination with stardom isn’t going anywhere.