6/7/15 (Part Two): The Heart and the Loneliest Hunter

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A Girl Walks Home Alone At Night, addicts, Alex O'Flinn, Amirpour, Ana Lily Amirpour, Arash Marandi, atmospheric films, Bad City, based on a short, black and white film, black-and-white cinematography, cinema, death, Dominic Rains, dramas, drug addiction, drug dealers, evocative, fantasy, father-son relationships, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, French New Wave, ghost town, horror films, Iranian-American, isolated communities, Jim Jarmusch, John Hughes, loneliness, Lyle Vincent, Marshall Manesh, Milad Eghbali, moody films, Movies, Mozhan Marnò, romances, Rome Shadanloo, Sam Kramer, set in Iran, Sheila Vand, skateboarders, spaghetti Westerns, street urchin, stylish films, vampires, writer-director-producer

Billed as “the first Iranian vampire Western,” writer-director-producer Ana Lily Amirpour’s A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night (2014) is an endlessly fascinating debut, a thoroughly confident horror-art piece that manages to turn its grab-bag of cinematic influences into something effortlessly cool. More Dead Man (1995) than Only Lovers Left Alive (2013), Amirpour’s film throws gorgeous black and white cinematography, nods to the French New Wave, German Expressionism, the holy trinity of Jarmusch, Bergman and Jeunet and the ’80s youth flicks of John Hughes into a blender and hits “puree.” While the results aren’t perfect, AGWHAAN is still a stunning feature-film debut from an amazingly talented new filmmaker and a necessary addition to the existing bloodsucker canon.

Amirpour’s debut (based on an earlier short) concerns the various residents of the Iranian town of Bad City. A virtual ghost town, Bad City appears to be inhabited solely by drug addicts, prostitutes, pimps/pushers, hustlers and the odd street urchin, here and there. Our humble hero, Arash (Arash Marandi), is a hustler who looks like he stepped straight out of East of Eden (1955): with his white t-shirt, blue jeans, omnipresent sunglasses and vintage muscle car, he’s a classic rebel without a cause. His father, Hossein (Marshall Manesh), is a pathetic junkie who owes a wad of cash to the local pimp/dealer, Saeed (Dominic Rains). For his part, Saeed is a philosophical, if thick-headed, thug who isn’t above taking Arash’s car as partial payment for his dad’s debt, while ruling his “girls” with an iron fist. One such “employee” is Atti (Mozhan Marnò), the sad-eyed, thirty-year-old prostitute who plies her trade on the barren, empty streets of Bad City, overshadowed by the towering oil derricks in the background.

As these various sad-sacks go about their repetitive routines, a new force emerges to shake up the status quo: a mysterious, silent young woman (Sheila Vand) has taken to stalking the streets, doling out death to any who cross her path. When the vampiric girl puts a permanent end to Saeed, Arash seizes the opportunity and attempts to fill the void left by the drug dealer. As Atti and the mysterious girl form a bond, however, Arash finds himself similarly drawn to the enigmatic figure. What does the young woman really want? What does the future hold for Bad City and its shadowy residents? One thing’s for certain: if you have to be out after dark, be sure to stay far, far away from the girl walking home alone…your very life may depend on it!

Lush, hazy, hypnotic and vaguely hallucinatory, A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night is the kind of film that you wrap around yourself like a cozy blanket, consciously giving yourself up to its warm embrace. While the pacing and visuals often bring to mind a perfect synthesis of Jim Jarmusch and Ingmar Bergman’s respective styles (the scene where the Girl skateboards down the center of the deserted street is framed in a way that turns her into the spitting image of Death from the iconic Seventh Seal (1957), while the film’s numerous long takes and relative lack of forward momentum handily recalls the aforementioned Dead Man), Amirpour’s influences are far more wide-reaching than something as simple as “Indie 101.”

Rather, Amirpour has taken a range of different styles and influences and made them all work towards a common goal: in this case, the goal being the film’s all-encompassing sense of foreboding atmosphere. Along with the more traditional indie influences, there are several strong, direct nods to the ’80s youth films of John Hughes (the lovely scene involving Arash, the Girl, a mirror ball and the White Lies’ song “Death” is one of the best examples but certainly not the only one), as well as a strong Spaghetti Western undercurrent (the wonderfully evocative score, locations and sense of big, empty spaces is pure Leone, through and through). On paper, Amirpour’s debut might sound like a rather head-scratching gumbo but the results speak for themselves: thanks to the Iranian-American filmmaker’s deft touch, everything comes together beautifully, giving the film the sort of unifying style befitting something like Jeunet’s exquisitely-crafted fantasias.

While the evocative score and beautiful cinematography (Lyle Vincent, who also shot the upcoming Cooties (2015), is an absolute wizard with a camera) help to give the film a sense of dreamy unreality, the acting keeps everything from dissolving into just another morass of pretty images. Marandi is a suitably cool, aloof “antihero,” while Manesh brings enough genuine regret to his portrayal of the sad-sack, aging junkie to make his character decidedly more complex than he might have been. Rains brings an interesting, almost empathetic quality to his portrayal of the sleazy pimp/dealer, calling to mind a less outwardly insane version of Gary Oldman’s iconic Drexl.

Most impressive, however, are Mozhan Marnò as the melancholy Atti and Sheila Vand as the titular vampire. In both cases, the actresses do a tremendous amount with as little as possible: Marnò is able to express entire worlds of sadness and sensuality with nothing so much as a half-smile and a look from her piercing eyes, while Vand’s portrayal of the Girl is nothing short of ethereal and completely alien. In many ways, Vand’s Girl is similar to Scarlett Johansson’s Female in the similarly eerie Under the Skin (2013): other-worldly, curious, nearly mute and of constant interest to the males around them, the Girl and the Female could certainly share a common bloodline, even if their ultimate goals differ wildly.

Amirpour’s hazy film is many things (seductive, sad, odd, cool and hypnotic being but a few) but it also manages to nail one of the most important aspects of any horror film: when necessary, the film is also genuinely scary. Although the Girl’s attacks have a tendency to rely on some decidedly stereotypical musical stings and old-as-the-hills “scary voices,” the pacing, framing and sense of impeding dread are all masterfully executed, resulting in some great, unique scares. The scene where the Girl stalks a young street urchin is a virtual master-class in how to build and execute: the fact that Amirpour also manages to throw in a clever reference to Fritz Lang’s child-killer classic M (1931) is only frosting on a very tasty cake.

Despite being thoroughly impressed by A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night, there were a few elements that let a bit of air out of the proceedings. The aforementioned vampire stereotypes are problematic only because the rest of the film is so clever: at times, relying on the same stock clichés as other vamp films does more to pull Amirpour’s film down than it does to unite it with a common cinematic sensibility. I was also less than on board with the more verite, handheld-shaky-cam style of certain scenes, usually those involving Hossein’s drug use and withdrawal pains. Not only was the handheld style a distinct step-down from the gorgeous cinematography but the “drug scenes” had a different flow and pace that jarred against the rest of the film’s more dreamy atmosphere. In truth, all of these moments could have been cut without damaging the rest of the meticulously crafted narrative.

All in all, Amirpour’s debut feature is a real showstopper, the kind of film that kicks in the door and practically demands your undivided attention. While her debut was set in Iran (although filmed in California), Amirpour’s next film will, apparently, be a “dystopic love story, set in a cannibal compound, in a Texas wasteland,” featuring the combined talents of Keanu Reeves, Jim Carrey, Giovanni Ribisi, Jason Mamoa and the always amazing Yolonda Ross. In other words, it looks like Amirpour is going to continue her fearless genre-splicing. I’m willing to wager that her next feature will grab the world by the scruff of the neck and shake it silly. If it’s half as impressive as her debut, I’ll be the first person in line.

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4/1/15: Who You Callin’ Dummy, Dummy?

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Adrien Brody, Arrested Development, awkward films, best friends, brother-sister relationships, cinema, crazy fiancees, delayed adolescence, dramadies, Dummy, dysfunctional family, Edgar Bergen, film reviews, films, Greg Pritikin, Horacio Marquinez, Illeana Douglas, independent films, indie comedies, indie dramas, Jared Harris, Jessica Walter, loneliness, Milla Jovovich, Movies, outsiders, Paul Wallfisch, romances, Ron Leibman, stalkers, Todd Solondz, ventriloquist, ventriloquist dummies, Vera Farmiga, wedding planners, writer-director

Home, as they say, is where the heart is. It can also, of course, be the place where the freaks and losers come to roost, as we’ve seen in any number of dysfunctional family dramedies over the years. From the cringe-worthy misanthropes that populate Todd Solondz’s best films to the more likable, if no less fractured, outsiders who inhabit Wes Anderson’s candy-colored universe, odd, sparring relatives have been a staple in indie films for decades, now, and the trend shows no sign of declining anytime soon. Think of it as “Cops” syndrome: no matter how screwed up our own families might be, there’s always a more screwed up bunch of folks waiting for us on the silver screen.

Writer-director Greg Pritikin’s Dummy (2002) is so well-ensconced within the “lovable outsider/screwed-up family” subgenre that an overriding sense of deja vu imbues every frame: you might not have seen this particular film before but it’ll probably feel like you have. This sense of familiarity ends up working both for and against the film: just like found-footage enthusiasts and zombie film aficionados have come to find, the “if you’ve seen one…” argument handily applies here. If quirky, combative families and sweetly “weird” loners are your thing, there’s plenty to tide you over until you get your next fix. If, however, you’re looking for a little more individuality from your films, I have a sneaking suspicion that Dummy will prove to be a largely forgettable experience, the cinematic equivalent of eating a three-course meal composed entirely of cotton candy.

In this particular instance, our awkward, outsider “hero” is Steven (Adrien Brody), a ventriloquism enthusiast who still lives at home, even as he inches ever closer to his third decade on the planet. His family is the kind of loud, brash, dysfunctional clan who should be immediately familiar to anyone who’s seen an indie drama-comedy in the past 15 years: mother, Fern (Arrested Development’s Jessica Walter), is a hyper-critical nitpicker; father, Lou (Ron Leibman), spends every minute of his begrudged retirement building model boats and ignoring his family and sister, Heidi (Illeana Douglas), is a wedding planner whose own romantic relationship could best be described as “hideous” and who takes more casual emotional abuse from her parents than Family Guy’s Meg.

When Steven loses his anonymous job at an equally anonymous electronics company, he ends up at the unemployment office, where he decides to pursue his “dream job”: he wants to be a master ventriloquist, just like his old hero, Edgar Bergen. The only problem, of course, is that Steven just isn’t very good: even his own dummy (which he never bothers to name) knows this beyond a shadow of a doubt. As Steven strikes up an awkward, tentative romance with Lorena (Vera Farmiga), the unassuming employment agent who tries to help him realize his life-long dream, he also has to deal with Fangora (Milla Jovovich), his obnoxious, brash, loud-mouthed best friend and Michael (Mad Men’s Jared Harris), his sister’s pathetic, unstable, stalkery ex-fiancee. It all culminates in a disastrous wedding where Steven must finally make the decision to come out from behind his dummy and actually live his life…or lose it!

Aside from the great cast, there’s little about Dummy that really differentiates it from any number of similar indie dramedies. Shy, unassuming but ultimately wise protagonist with a “weird” quirk? Check. Snarky, cynical sibling with a bad relationship? Yup. Bickering parents who micromanage their grown children’s’ lives? Goofball, antisocial best friend who causes chaos wherever they go? Double check. Every expected beat is present and accounted for, every necessary trope and cliché checked off the master list. There’s an overriding sense of awkward mortification that underscores everything, sure, but that’s not exactly revolutionary for this particular type of film.

If the story and writing behind Dummy is decidedly old hat and corny, the film features enough good performances to make it worth a watch, especially for fans of the cast. Adrien Brody is one of those chameleonic actors who always manages to shine, regardless of the production, and Dummy is no exception: there’s a tender vulnerability to his performance that makes us pull for Steven regardless of how pathetic he often seems. Vera Farmiga, currently turning heads as Norman’s overbearing mother on TV’s Bates Motel, is equally great (and under-stated) as his love interest and the couple have genuine chemistry that starts at “meet cute” but ends in territory closer to real life. Illeana Douglas nearly steals the whole show as Steven’s neurotic sister in a role that could easily come across as humiliating (see the aforementioned Meg Griffin reference) but manages to locate itself just south of “tortured nobility.” She’s always been a formidable presence, on-screen, but Dummy is easily one of very best, most self-assured performances: the scene where she, finally, smashes her dad’s stupid model boat is unbelievably satisfying.

We also get great turns from Jessica Walter (does anyone do “bitchy mom” better than Mrs. Bluth/Archer?) and Ron Leibman as the ‘rents and Jared Harris as the pathetic ex. Only Milla Jovovich ends up disappointing as Steven’s ridiculously high-maintenance best friend: blame it on the way the character is written or the actual performance but everything about Fangora is insufferable and obnoxious. Throughout the entire film, my one, overriding thought was “Why the hell doesn’t Steven play hide-and-go-seek” with her and run for the hills as soon as her eyes are closed?

I’m also happy to pour a healthy helping of derision on the ridiculously sappy “singer-songwriter”-esque songs that rear their ugly heads, from time to time. I’m not sure if the tunes are meant as subtle (or not so) commentary on the proceedings or are just impossibly on-the-nose but they never failed to pull me right out of the film. Self-referential songs can move a film forward (see Cat Ballou (1965) for a good example) or stop it cold in its tracks and it’s not difficult to judge which direction I felt Dummy erred on. Suffice to say that any element of a film that calls undue attention to itself is, ultimately, unsuccessful and Dummy’s silly score proves that by a country mile.

Ultimately, Dummy isn’t a terrible film but it is a terribly predictable one. There are enough good performances here (particularly Brody and Farmiga) to make this worth a watch on a lazy Sunday but nothing else really stands out. Most tellingly, Dummy is the kind of film that seems slavishly devoted to pleasing its audience, at the risk of any real tension or stakes: the overly sunny finale manages to snatch a traditionally happy ending from the clutches of a much braver (if still clichéd) possibility. Like Steven’s dummy, Pritikin’s Dummy is a largely inert force that manages to come to life, at times, but never really achieves the vitality that it deserves. Pinocchio might have become a real boy, in the end, but Dummy never quite becomes that animated.

 

2/21/15 (Part One): The Mold Knows, Jack

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Adrian DiGiovanni, Alex Mauer, bizarre, Bliss Holloway, breaking the fourth wall, cinema, Danielle Doetsch, dark comedies, Don Thacker, fake commericals, fake TV shows, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, Frank Henenlotter, Hannah Stevenson, horror, horror movies, Ian Folivor, insanity, isolation, Jeffrey Combs, Ken Brown, life coach, loneliness, Meet the Hollowheads, Motivational Growth, Movies, Pete Giovagnoli, Quentin Dupieux, real world, Robert Kramer, self-help, speaking to camera, talking mold, television, The Dark Backward, video games, weird films, writer-director-editor

Many films flirt with the weird: they sidle along the edges, dipping a toe into the bizarre here and there but never fulling committing to go all-in. Sure, we might get a few strange situations, maybe an oddball character or two but the end result is usually much more conventional than the starting destination. For most people, “weird” is a great vacation spot but not quite where they want the mail forwarded. Some films, however, cannonball right into the middle of bizarre, clipping the safety nets, making all the foolhardy moves and taking leaps of faith that make the Grand Canyon look like a sinkhole. For folks that like their films fearless, thought-provoking and original, however, there’s nothing quite like coming across a genuinely weird, legitimately “out there” movie, especially if it burns the rule book in the process.

As a lifelong, devoted follower of the weird in all of its strange, wonderful and disturbing forms, I’ve been lucky enough to see a handful of truly bizarre films over the years. Films like The Dark Backward (1989), Meet the Hollowheads (1989) and pretty much anything by Quentin Dupieux scratch a vital itch for me: the intense, burning need to be surprised, befuddled, confused and disturbed by the magic of moving pictures. I’m always looking for new films to add to this very special short-list but, as can be expected, authentically weird films don’t grow on Hollywood trees: they’re usually found on strange, deserted, creepy little patches of overgrown dirt, tucked away from the prying eyes of the mainstream and left to run riot on their own. Anytime I can uncover one of these strange little treasures, it’s an immediate cause for celebration. The newest reason to fire up the party cannon? Writer-director Don Thacker’s full-length debut Motivational Growth (2013), one of the strangest, most disturbing and flat-out coolest films I’ve seen in ages.

In a strange, deformed, asymmetrical nutshell, Motivational Growth is about Ian Folivor (Adrian DiGiovanni), a reclusive, shut-in loser and what happens after his beloved television, Kent, finally gives up the ghost. Suddenly left with no purpose to his pointless life, our eccentric host does the only sensible thing and decides to off himself, mixing up a big ol’ batch of chlorine gas in his bathtub. Turns out that Ian is as bad at dying as he is at living, however, and manages to muff the suicide attempt something fierce, falling and clocking his head on the bathroom floor, in the process. When he comes to, Ian finds out that he’s no longer alone: the enormous patch of revolting mold in his absolutely disgusting bathroom has gained sentient intelligence. Ian, meet…The Mold (Jeffrey Combs).

The Mold, as it turns out, is a chipper kind of fellow (we suppose?) and functions as sort of a life-coach to the helpless recluse, encouraging him to clean up his life in order to get all the things he desires, like his attractive next-door-neighbor, Leah (Danielle Doetsch). So far, so good: after all, if there’s anything Ian and his grubby life could use, it’s a little self-help spring cleaning. After all, he owes back-rent to his hulking, violent landlord, Box the Ox (Pete Giovagnoli), can’t afford to tip his grocery-delivery person (Hannah Stevenson), hasn’t shaved or bathed in god knows how long and seems to be the only person in the universe without a plasma TV. If bathroom mold can pull him out of rut, hey…more power to it, right?

The problem, of course, is that nothing is ever as straight-forward as it seems. Sure, The Mold is friendly, full of good cheer and knows his way around a pithy quip (“Out-there is running against Reagan in ’84…out-there is a wet T-shirt contest in a nursing home…this isn’t out-there: this is opportunity, Jack!”). On the other hand, The Mold also asks Ian to eat vile-looking “mushrooms” that pop out of it from time to time, punch holes in the walls and stuff them with raw meat and refrain from opening the front door or going outside. Ian also has to call The Mold by its proper name: forget the “The” and prepare for one severe tongue-lashing, Jack: The Mold don’t brook no crap, you hear?

As Ian finds himself more and more in thrall to The Mold, the very fabric of his home, his life and his reality begin to morph and change around him. Sinister repairmen enter the equation, the TV commercials begin to speak directly to him in some very disturbing ways and there appears to be…well…something growing out of the walls. Is Ian going crazy or is this all just part of the grand plan? Is The Mold the most laconic life coach this side of Matthew McC or does his droll personality hide a much darker, more evil side? Will Ian find true love with the equally strange Leah or is true what they say: nothing comes between a boy and his Mold?

Reading through the above synopsis, you might be inclined to imagine exactly what Motivational Growth has in store. You would be dead wrong, of course, regardless of what you initially imagined but that’s totally fine: there really is nothing that can (or should) prepare you for Thacker’s film. In fact, one of the most marvelous aspects of this thoroughly unhinged dark comedy is how radically unpredictable it is. Even when the film seems to give away a huge clue right around the midpoint, it ultimately reveals nothing at all: by the conclusion, it’s still anybody’s guess as to what’s going on, even with the seemingly obvious “clues.”

There really isn’t anything about Motivational Growth that plays out in a logical, predictable manner. Ian addresses the camera directly, although none of the other actors do, yet there’s never a consistent sense of breaking the fourth wall. We get inter-titles that seem to divide the film into chapters, although there’s no sense of organization or meaning to it. The film looks like it takes place in “our world,” yet everything is just off enough to situate us in some far-off, completely alien galaxy: none of the foodstuff resembles anything we’re used to (this aspect really reminded me of Meet the Hollowheads) and we never get a clear look outside the front door. At times, the film swings into inexplicable video-game-influenced images, a stylistic quirk that’s only reinforced by the cheerful, chiptune score…yet there’s never any reason or rational for it…it just happens. All of the acting is extremely broad and theatrical, yet the film never feels over-the-top or silly: if anything, there’s a consistent feeling of dread and encroaching doom that hangs over everything like a shroud, regardless of how manic the action on-screen gets.

Basically, nothing about Motivational Growth should work…yet it all ends up working spectacularly. While I’ll admit that the first 10 minutes was slightly rough going (Ian’s constant monologue takes a little getting used to…he pretty much never shuts up for the length of the film, although it gets much easier to take as it goes along), the film picks up speed frightfully quickly and the final half is an absolute blur of one insane, eye-popping monstrosity after the other. Once all of the elements have a chance to mix together, Thacker’s film becomes virtually unstoppable: it’s no lie to say that the final 30 minutes of the film are some of the most intense, self-assured and bat-shit insane moments that I’ve ever had the pleasure to witness. No lie: for his debut feature, Thacker comes across like a wizened veteran…think Frank Henenlotter at the height of his power and you have a pretty good idea.

At the center of the film, just like he’s at the center of Ian’s life, is genre great Jeffrey Combs’ towering vocal performance as The Mold. From his first line to his last, The Mold is an absolute treasure: I haven’t seen a film so instantly quotable since the first time I watched Pulp Fiction (1994). While the stop-motion on The Mold is excellent, it’s Combs who really brings the talking fungus to life: as weird as it sounds, it really is one of the most interesting characters to emerge in some time. For his part, Adrian DiGiovanni does a great job as Ian: while his verbal diarrhea can be tedious, at times, he fully inhabits every inch of the character like a second skin. He’s filthy, disgusting, strange, unpleasant…but he’s also weirdly sympathetic and, if you squint just right, probably looks more familiar than any of us would like to admit. While the character of Ian may stand for society in modern times, the individual in an increasingly homogeneous world or, quite possible, just folks who love to lick bathroom mold, the actor playing him always manages to keep a foot firmly in “our” reality, even when the rest of the film has leapt into a bottomless void.

On a side note, especially for folks who might be a bit more “sensitive” than most: Motivational Growth is an exceptionally disgusting film. While the movie has no shortage of violent moments (the scene that transitions from Ian “heroically” slicing a lead pipe in a Ginsu commercial to him carving other materials in the “real world” is, to say the least, bracing), there’s a nauseating aroma of body horror (ala early Cronenberg) that wafts through nearly every scene. I’m not too proud to say that I gagged several times during the film (suffice to say that poor Ian eats more rancid, “juicy” things during the course of the movie than any Fear Factor contestant ever did) and there’s one shot of a body that pretty much rewrites the rulebook on that sort of thing: if any of this sounds like it might not be your cup of tea, let me assure you…if you have to ask, it most certainly isn’t.

If you’ve got a strong stomach and a desire to see something completely fresh, invigorating and flat-out amazing, however, look no further than Motivational Growth. For a first time writer-director-editor, I found Don Thacker to be nothing short of a revelation: on the strength of this one entry, I’ve already gone ahead and reserved him a seat at the modern horror Round Table. After all, it’s not every day that you find a filmmaker who can effortlessly mix talking mold, a humorous suicide attempt, self-help gurus, television addicts and creeping, Lovecraftian existentialism into such a tasty treat. By the time you get to Box’s cheerful story about breaking chimp arms (“They won’t let you do it easy, either…they’re dirty fighters”) for fun and profit, one thing should be very clear: for better or worse, there just aren’t a lot of films like this out there. Here’s to hoping Thacker keeps pumping out these filthy jewels like clockwork: for lovers of weird cinema, we just might have found a new patron saint.

2/6/15: Scratching the Surface

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Adam Sliwinski, Alain Mayrand, Ava Hughes, body image, Canadian films, cinema, Comforting Skin, Derek Franson, directorial debut, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, foreign films, horror, horror films, isolation, Jane Sowerby, Jenn Griffin, John Tench, loneliness, male-female friendships, mental breakdown, mental illness, Movies, obsession, Paul Jarrett, Phil Granger, psychological horror, Repulsion, self-abuse, self-confidence, set in Canada, tattoo, tattoos, twenty-something angst, Tygh Runyan, Victoria Bidewell, writer-director

If you think about it, it’s been quite the long, strange journey for the art of tattooing. Once denigrated as the mark of the rough-and-tumble, the larcenous and the counter-culture, tattoos used to be one of the fastest ways to earn the disapproving stares and condemnations of “polite” society. Nowadays, however, with everyone from the local barista to the TV meteorologist to the lacrosse team sporting their own skin art, it’s kind of silly to think about how controversial this used to be. In fact, tattoos have become so adopted by the mainstream that not having them has become its own statement of purpose, in the same way that getting them used to be. A brave, new world, indeed!

One of the most fascinating aspects of the current mainstream acceptance of tattoos is the fundamental way in which it repurposes said tattoos. In the past, tattoos were seen as a sign of individuality (we’ll leave out discussions of tribal, gang and organizational markings, lest we’re here all day) and a way for someone to set themselves aside from “normal” society. Nowadays, tattoos have almost the opposite effect, uniting whole masses of people in ways that would have previously been unheard of. For every person who comes to an artist with a detailed layout and design scheme, there are at least a bakers’ dozen behind said person who are probably all going to get variations on the same design. It’s a pretty interesting phenomenon, this transition from the private self to the greater whole: it’s not like we’re seeing the same thing, writ large, all over society and pop culture, right?

First-time writer/director Derek Franson takes this dual nature of tattoos, as both unifier and distancer, and folds it within the framework of a discussion on body image with his debut, Comforting Skin (2011). In a way, it’s a pretty smart observation: we modify our bodies as a way to not only “exert authority” over them, as it were, but also as a way to send a message to the rest of the world. The modifications might be “for us” but they also communicate whatever our intended message is to the masses: even if the message is “Stay away,” we’re still expecting some sort of response. Ah, the modern malaise: the desire to be “connected” vs the inherent need to “know yourself.” As with everything else, we can’t have it all, no matter how much we might want it.

We first meet our erstwhile protagonist, Koffie (Victoria Bidewell), as she awkwardly tries to get a guy’s attention at a crowded dance club. At first glance, she’s kind of a sad sack: shy, plain and self-conscious due to some acne scars, Koffie is the kind of person who’s all but invisible to the “beautiful’ people who always seem to be having so much more fun than the rest of us. Hell, Koffie’s best friend, Synthia (Jane Sowerby), just has to wiggle her finger at a guy and he follows her all the way home like a well-trained puppy: Koffie can’t even get them to maintain eye contact.

More than anything, Koffie is desperately lonely, despite the near constant presence of her other best friend/roommate, Nathan (Tygh Runyan), who also happens to be a sociophobe who relies on Koffie to ease his transition into society. Koffie and Nathan seem to have fun together but a buddy isn’t the same thing as a lover, as we see when she pines around her former beau, Allan (Philip Granger), a shitty gallery owner who left Koffie to “fuck someone sane,” as he cheerfully tells her. Even though Allan seems like the human equivalent of pond scum, Koffie begs to get back together with him: even an abusive relationship is better than none, as far as she’s concerned.

After finding herself in a decidedly low-rent tattoo parlor one night, seemingly by happenstance, Koffie makes a spur-of-the-moment decision to get an “original” design on her shoulder. Despite Nathan’s rather cruel derision, Koffie is over-joyed with her new art and begins to experience the kind of elation and high energy that some folks might experience in…well, in a new relationship. When life continues to beat Koffie down, however, she finds herself despondent and inches away from cutting herself with a box cutter: life has handed Koffie so many lemons that she’s completely buried in sour, yellow fruit.

In a development that might be considered unusual, however, Koffie’s new tattoo appears to move around her body, as if it were some sort of living organism. It also speaks to her in a soothing, convincing tone that sounds suspiciously like her own voice. Although poor Koffie is, at first, suitably horrified, she comes to view the tattoo as a confidant, relying on it for support and advise. In short order, Koffie finds herself much happier and more confident, even as she finds herself increasingly estranged from both Synthia and Nathan. The tattoo seems like a true blue friend, albeit a rather jealous, possessive one. Nothing bad can come from taking life advise from your tattoo, though, right? As the line between reality and insanity blurs, Koffie will either emerge as a bold, new individual or she’ll be completely consumed by something shadowy, seductive…and evil.

Comforting Skin starts strong: there’s something undeniably intriguing about a “living” tattoo and the underlying discussion of body image and abusive relationships seems like a natural fit for this kind of film. For a brief time, the film chugs along impressively, building up a nice melancholy atmosphere and establishing Koffie as an interesting, sympathetic character. As the film goes on, however, it gets gradually more inane, the plot stretching so thin as to spring leaks at every turn. This wouldn’t be such a crucial issue, ultimately, if the characters were stronger but everything sort of collapses in on itself in a slow-motion implosion. As the film gets sillier and the characters become more unpleasant, it becomes harder to stay invested: by the conclusion, I was just about as removed, emotionally, as possible, despite being fairly invested earlier.

Much of the blame, unfortunately, falls on the shoulders of Victoria Bidewell: despite starting strong, with some genuinely powerful, subtle emotional moments, Koffie’s character quickly becomes whiny, melodramatic and almost unbearably tedious. Her one and only function seems to be acquiring a boyfriend, at any cost, and she quickly becomes the female equivalent of TV’s Ted Mosby. Scene after scene revolves around her complaining about her love life, complaining about her family, complaining about Synthia, etc etc…he gets old by about the midpoint and, unfortunately, never gets any better. By the conclusion, I disliked Bidewell’s character so much that I really could have cared less how the situation unfolded: as long as it was eventually over, I was a happy camper.

Bidewell’s co-star, Tygh Runyan, fares just as poorly, coming across as one of the most obnoxious, irritating and self-entitled assholes to co-anchor a film since the glory days of the Farrelly Brothers. The scene where he acts like a complete jerk in the diner is painful to watch and he manages to match Bidewell whine or whine, which is no easy feat. In fact, none of the cast are anything approaching likable or sympathetic, with the possible exception of Ava Hughes’ performance as Koffie’s little sister, Peg: other than that, they all come across as unpleasant, entitled nitwits who relish casual cruelty, “witty” insults and “clever” observations…it all reminded me of The Comedy (2012), in the worst way possible.

The film was also unnecessarily confusing, which seems strange considering how relatively stream-lined the narrative is. Despite that, however, I often find myself a little lost on the specifics: I was 38 minutes into the film before I figured out that Koffie was trying to help Nathan overcome his sociophobia and even longer before I realized that Nathan was a composer…before that, I thought that the pair were some sort of comedy duo or owned some sort of advertising business. There’s also some very confusing business involving the tattoo appearing to “seduce” Synthia, an event which never makes sense, even within the constraints of the film’s (limited) mythology. Everything’s wrapped up in a way that allows for a happy ending, of sorts, yet nothing actually feels resolved. At times, the film threatens to veer into Repulsion (1965) territory but it never quite makes the break from the pulpier aspects of the material.

I really appreciate what Franson and company were trying to do with Comforting Skin, even if I disliked the final product: I still think there’s a helluva film to be made that deals with these exact issues of body image, self-worth and female sexuality, even if this isn’t it. We can always use more films told from a female perspective, especially within the horror genre, which has always been a notorious boys’ club. In many ways, this reminded me of Contracted (2013), although that film was relatively sturdy sailing up until the unfortunate ending. In this case, Franson has a solid starting point but the whole thing unravels well before the final credits have begun to roll. Tattoos may be a “permanent” form of self-expression but this may be one case where laser removal is the only sensible option.

4/1/14: Only the Lonely

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Bobby Cannavale, cinema, drama, dramadies, dwarfism, film festival favorite, film reviews, films, food truck, friends, friendship, independent films, indie comedies, John Slattery, loneliness, low-budget films, low-key, Michelle Williams, Movies, Patricia Clarkson, Paul Benjamin, Peter Dinklage, Raven Goodwin, small town life, The Station Agent, Tom McCarthy, train depot, train-chasing, trains, writer-director

Some folks are just slightly out of step with the rest of the world, despite the best efforts of the rest of the world to bring them back into line. Humans are social creatures, we’re told, and companionship is necessary for our survivals (and mental health). The best way to succeed in life is through a positive outlook and cheery disposition: like attracts like, after all, and grim, unpleasant people will lead grim, unpleasant lives. In order to succeed, you must constantly push ahead, remaining endlessly active: idle hands and all that, you know. These are all truisms, little global facts that will help us all become better people…if we’d just listen and get in line, of course. What about those individuals who don’t “play nice,” however? The people who would rather go it alone than hang out with the crowd? Those folks who don’t find a smile to be their resting expression but something closer to a resigned grimace? Are the dour and serious-minded among us fit only to be reformed, devoid of any societal use on their own? Tom McCarthy’s low-key, dour independent film The Station Agent takes a good look at one such “unfriendly” individual and comes up a similar conclusion: even loners need companionship…even if they don’t realize it at the time.

Finbar McBride (Peter Dinklage) runs a model train store with Henry Styles (Paul Benjamin): the two live together and appear to be each other’s only friends, enjoying a quiet, tranquil existence filled with lots of comfortable silences and humble meals in their tiny kitchen. Nothing can remain forever, however, and Fin’s life is upended when his only friend suddenly drops dead. Henry has sold off his store, leaving Fin unemployed, but he’s also bequeathed his friend some land with an abandoned train station on it. Fin pulls up stakes and moves into the train station, making it his home. Once there, he meets his new neighbors: Joe (Bobby Cannavale), a boisterous, out-going, talkative food-truck owner and Olivia (Patricia Clarkson), a rather odd, high-strung artist. Joe has a tendency to park his food truck right outside Fin’s new doorstep, making him something of a mobile next-door-neighbor.

At first, Fin wants nothing more than to run down the clock of his life in peace, away from any other human contact. Bobby, however, takes a real shine to Fin and seems determined to become friends with him, even if it means wearing down his resistance with a constant, never-ending stream of good-humored chatter. Along the way, other people end up in Fin’s orbit, people like young Cleo (Raven Goodwin), local librarian Emily (Michelle Williams) and Olivia’s rather bewildered ex-husband David (Mad Men’s John Slattery). Despite his best intentions, Fin ends up interacting with all of them, to one extent or another, and each one brings him one small step closer to rejoining the rest of humanity. Will Fin ever embrace the friendship around him or will he continue to sequester himself away from the world, greeting everything with downcast eyes and a sigh? Will romance bloom in surprising ways? Or will long-held secrets and Fin’s naturally stand-offish demeanor doom him to a life alone?

One of the charges frequently leveled against indie films is that they have a tendency to be unrelentingly dour and po-faced: this certainly isn’t anything that The Station Agent works particularly hard to disavow. If anything, the film may stand as one of the most serious “comedies” I’ve ever seen, although most indie comedies from the past decade tend to be a bit of a misnomer. There are certainly funny, upbeat moments in the film (almost all courtesy of Bobby Cannavale) but the overall mood is definitely one of serious pensiveness. Peter Dinklage mopes about the film with an expression that seems more befitting of Wuthering Heights than anything with the descriptor “comedy” and Olivia’s backstory (and subsequent breakdown) keep the story in some pretty dark territory. There’s also the notion that only Olivia, Joe and Cleo (and possibly Emily) ever treat Fin with anything approaching warmth or humanity: everyone else he comes across is content to mock him, snap photos on the sly or gawk as if he were a three-headed space alien.

Since the film is so serious, and Fin is set up as so stand-offish and unpleasant, there’s frequently a disconnect between the characters. I can’t count the number of times that I visibly cringed whenever Joe said something to Fin: Joe was always so sweet and happy, while Fin was always so dismissive and curt that I really just wanted to grab Fin and shake the shit out of him. It’s certainly not fair to make Fin responsible for “babysitting” Joe, as it were, and being friendly to him. On the other hand, however, Joe does absolutely nothing derogatory to Fin, yet often gets a big, heaping helping of nothing, in return. Once Fin warms up, a genuinely sweet, touching friendship develops. Even then, however, there’s still a sense of distance and disconnect: you get the feeling that Fin stops smiling the moment his “friends” can no longer see his expression.

Despite Fin’s rather churlish attitude, however, The Station Agent is still able to make some nice points about friendship and companionship. Deep in the heart of the film is the idea that real friends, the kind that stick around for a lifetime, never require any more of us than our presence in their lives. There’s real power to the moment where Fin finally lets Joe sit and read with him: even if Joe can’t quite keep his end of the “complete silence” deal, this feels like a real breakthrough moment for both. Equally powerful is the scene where we see Fin, Olivia and Joe sitting quietly together, staring off into the distance, drinking wine and smoking a joint. No one says anything but there’s nothing uncomfortable about the silence. This, the filmmakers seem to be saying, is the real definition of friendship: real friends don’t need to talk…real friends would be just as content to sit there, listening to the buzz of mosquitoes in the warm summer air, enjoying their time together on earth.

The Station Agent may seem to be about a man who just wants the world to leave him alone but it’s actually much more: it’s about a man who just wants the world to meet on his own terms, in his own backyard and on his own two feet. Finbar doesn’t want anything less than respect from the world at large: can any of us ask for less?