7/31/14: You Can’t Be Righteous With Weapons of War

Tags

based on a true story, Better Mus' Come, brothers, cinema, City of God, Cold War, crime film, Dennis Hall, drama, Duane Pusey, Everaldo Cleary, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, independent film, Jamaica, Jamaican films, Movies, Nicole Sky Grey, period-piece, political factions, political struggle, poverty, Rastafarianism, Ricardo Orgil, romance, Sage the Poet, set in the 1970s, Sheldon Shepherd, Storm Saulter, writer-director-cinematographer

For many people who came of age during the Cold War, the threat of another world war and/or nuclear annihilation was a near constant, if ultimately theoretical, source of worry. Western-bloc school children were put through safety drills, fall-out shelters were built and political rhetoric was tossed around fast and thick from both sides. In some countries, however, the Cold War was more than just an ideological battleground: in places like Jamaica, during the ’70s, people were actually killing (and being killed) for this “battle against Communism.” For some, the Cold War was as physical and real as their often difficult living situations.

First-time writer/director/cinematographer Storm Saulter’s bracing debut feature, Better Mus’ Come (2010), examines this very “heated” side of the Cold War, wrapping the conflict up within the familiar trappings of a coming-of-age story. In the process, Saulter comes up with a film that flirts with greatness, even as it narrowly misses the lofty mark set by the similar City of God (2002). Despite not being a classic, Better Mus’ Come is a fairly extraordinary film, full of some painfully real performances, all surrounded by the inherent majesty of Jamaica’s picaresque countryside and humble shanty-towns slums. It’s a vibrant, lively, colorful place occupied, thanks to Saulter, with some truly interesting characters.

Better Mus’ Come begins in 1978, as Jamaica is in the grip of the Cold War: the slums are caught up in the often violent conflict between rival gangs working for the People’s National Party (PNP) on one side and the Jamaica Labor Party (JLP) on the other. Our protagonist, Ricky (Sheldon Shepherd), is a proud Laborite: he sees himself as a freedom fighter devoted to keeping the “Communist threat” out of Jamaica. “Let them take that shit to Cuba,” he proudly sneers at one point in the film. Along with his role as de facto leader of his local gang, a crew which includes his friends Flames (Ricardo Orgil) and Shorty (Everaldo Cleary), Ricky is also responsible for taking care of his young brother, Chris, a task made exceptionally difficult by their nearly crippling poverty. Like many of the residents of their shanty-town, Ricky and Chris don’t even have access to clean, running water, much less luxuries like electricity and “real” building materials. In one of the film’s most telling scenes, Ricky complains about their lack of amenities to the corrupt local politician who employs them, only to be answered with the dismissive notion that “people shouldn’t expect that kind of stuff.” We could go back and forth on the need for electricity but clean water? That seems like the kind of need that supersedes any notions of social status or wealth: everyone, regardless of station, should have access to clean water.

In his own way, however, Ricky is like a young, impoverished Don Corleone: he practically runs his neighborhood, watching out for residents who are getting crushed by strictures like food rationing and mercurial local authority figures. Ricky and his gang make their money by disrupting PNP rallies and raiding “legitimate” construction sites in order to steal and re-sell the supplies, while still finding time to run out any “Socialists” that manage to wander into the area. When Ricky’s gang jumps and nearly kills Pauly, a nerdy young man who kind of/sort of runs with the Socialists, Ricky gets introduced to Kemala (Nicole Sky Grey) and it’s love at first sight. As with any troubled romance (think Romeo and Juliet or the Hatfields and McCoys), all signs and advise point to Ricky and Kemala staying as far away from each other as possible: Ricky’s peers counsel him to “stay away from Socialist girls,” while Kemala and Pauly are intrinsically intertwined with brutal Socialist gang leader Dogheart (Duane Pusey), a sort of small-town Napoleon who’s always “all-in to kill some fools.”

As Ricky and Kemala timidly negotiate their highly hazardous courtship, events come to a head for both the Laborites and the Socialists. Local entrepreneur Souls (Dennis Hall) wants to pay Ricky and his gang to guard the same construction sites that they’ve been ripping off, a curious conflict-of-interest that’s but one of many dichotomies in Better Mus’ Come. Ricky’s gang jumps at the offer, mostly because the $300/week (plus weapons) that they’ve been offered is twenty-times more than the $15/week they normally make. There’s a trade-off, however: working for “the man” means ceding their autonomy in the neighborhood, the equivalent of Don Corleone swapping his power for a fast-food job. It also means forcing more conflicts with the Socialists, which means the potential for more bloodshed. When Pauly tries to use Dogheart as a way to strike back at the humiliating beating he received from the Laborites, killing seems inevitable. Despite his best efforts, Ricky and his young brother are about to be dragged into the howling maelstrom that is Jamaica’s violent political struggles: in the process, Ricky will have to give up everything for the faintest glimmer of a terror-free life and future with Kemala.

I will freely, if begrudgingly, admit that my previous experiences with Jamaican cinema have been much less numerous than my experiences with other world cinemas: before Better Mus’ Come, I’d only seen The Harder They Come (1972) and Rockers (1978), two films which I thoroughly enjoyed. As mentioned earlier, however, Better Mus’ Come actually owes much more to Meirelles’ City of God than it does to either of the above two: at their hearts, both films are about the ways in which otherwise “good” youths are drawn into lives of crime thanks to the crushing poverty and inherent hopelessness of their situations. Between the two, City of God is definitely the deeper, more powerful film: while Better Mus’ Come has plenty of genuinely impactful moments, there’s also quite a bit of melodrama that wasn’t present in City of God. Meirelles’ film also seemed to get deeper under the skin of its characters than Saulter’s does, although this could also be chalked up to Saulter’s relative inexperience: this was, after all, his debut film.

While Better Mus’ Come is not, inherently, a better film than City of God, it’s still a pretty extraordinary experience. Saulter’s cinematography can be quite beautiful, at times (although it also has a tendency to be a little blown-out at others), and it really shows off Jamaica to great effect. While the musical score is a little obvious and intrusive at the beginning, it becomes much more organic and evocative by the midpoint, adding much to the film’s frequently red-lined sense of tension. While the storyline can occasionally get a bit convoluted and unnecessarily confusing (the introduction of some nefarious government agents, at the end, seems to muddy the waters a bit too much in the home-stretch), it unfolds in a fairly straight-forward way for much of the film’s running time, making Better Mus’ Come an easy film to get wrapped-up in.

Although Saulter displays some nice chops behind the camera, the real stars of the show end up being the exceptional cast. Sheldon Shepard is a real revelation as Ricky: by turns hard-headed, sensitive, biased and understanding, he’s a completely three-dimensional character. Shepard is an utterly magnetic performer, no more so than the crowd-pleasing scenes where he plays “godfather” in the slum. It’s pretty easy to see why folks would follow him which, adversely, makes it pretty easy to see why other folks want him dead. Ricardo Orgil is similarly excellent as Ricky’s right-hand-man, Flames, while Duane Pusey is so over-the-top as the reprehensible Dogheart that he often seems like a mustache-twirling silent-film bad guy. The character works spectacularly well, however, giving Ricky a suitably nasty antagonist to play off. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention Nicole Sky Grey as the Juliet to Ricky’s Romeo, however: she plays the character with a completely winning combination of vulnerability and steely reserve. At one point, Kemala asks why it’s “so easy to die for nothing” in their country and she becomes, effortlessly, both the film’s bleeding heart and its wounded conscience.

There’s an awful lot to like about Better Mus’ Come: the film is full of tense, well-staged action scenes (the big conflict between Ricky’s Laborites and Dogheart’s Socialists is suitably thrilling but is over-shadowed by the truly bravura scene where Kemala and Chris are almost caught by Dogheart’s crew while hiding in the trunk of a cab), features a nicely realized romance (Ricky and Kemala make a cute, realistic couple) and has plenty to say about Jamaican politics circa the late-’70s. The film sometimes suffers from “feature-debut” jitters but, on the whole, is a remarkably assured creation. Despite my relative lack of knowledge regarding Jamaica’s political history, I was utterly enthralled by Better Mus’ Come.

While the film isn’t based on actual events, per se, it’s certainly inspired by the era it represents and marks a distinct, powerful calling card for an emerging new talent. I’m going to go out on a limb here and suggest that we’re going to be seeing a lot more of Storm Saulter in the future: while Better Mus’ Come isn’t quite as unforgettable as City of God, I’m willing to wager that Saulter’s next film will be.

7/13/14: A Little Dab’ll Do Ya

Tags

Adrian Garcia Bogliano, Argentinian film, auteur theory, Camila Velasco, cinema, Cold Sweat, Facundo Espinosa, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, foreign films, Here Comes the Devil, horror film, Marina Glezer, Movies, nitroglycerine, Omar Gioiosa, Penumbra, political struggle, thriller, youth vs old age

I’m gonna go ahead and declare a winner in this particular race: writer/director Adrian Garcia Bogliano is the current king of South American horror/thriller cinema. There you go: take it to the track, cause that’s the surest bet you’ll get all day. Across the span of ten full-length films and one short in The ABCs of Death (2012), the Spanish-born Bogliano has been quietly, but expertly, making a name for himself. His efforts appear to be paying dividends, since his most recent feature, Here Comes the Devil (2012), has been widely heralded as a modern-day psychosexual masterpiece and he currently has his English-language debut, Late Phases, scheduled for wide release later this year.

Since we’ve already discussed Here Comes the Devil earlier, I thought it might be a good time to take another look at one of Bogliano’s earlier films: in this case, I decided to go with Cold Sweat (2010), perhaps my favorite film of his (up to this point, at least). To be honest, you can’t really go wrong with any of his films but if you want some pure, undiluted Bogliano, this should hit the spot like a sledgehammer smashing a plate-glass window.

We begin with a news-reel-footage-type intro that manages to pack an extraordinary amount of information into a remarkably small space. To whit, the conflict begins in Argentina back in the ’70s, when the Popular Revolutionary Army (PRA) steals 25 boxes of dynamite from a mining complex in Cordoba. Shortly afterwards, their rival group, the Argentine Anticommunist Alliance (AAA), murders several members of a PRA squadron, seizing their weapons, along with the 25 boxes of explosives. The AAA eventually ceased all activity but the boxes of explosives were never found. Smash-cut to the present, in brilliant color, and we’re off to the races.

Our protagonist, Ramon (Facundo Espinosa), has a bit of a problem: it seems that his former girlfriend, Jackie (Camila Velasco), met some hunky blonde guy online and proceeded to kick him to the curb. In order to find out exactly what happened, Ramon uses his new girlfriend, Ali (Marina Glezer), as bait to set up a meeting with the same blonde guy. They end up at a run-down looking tenement building and Ali disappears inside for her scheduled rendezvous. When Ali doesn’t reappear after a reasonable amount of time, however, Ramon begins to get worried and sets off to investigate on his own.

Turns out Ramon was right to worry: as we see, Ali has stumbled into something quite strange and certainly much more hazardous, as she gets captured by a mysterious old man. The old man (I dubbed him Walker, thanks to his walker but the film never actually calls him anything and I’ll be damned if I can actually figure out who the actor is, as great as he is) and his partner, Baxter (Omar Gioiosa), are hold-overs from the old AAA and are, despite their kindly appearances, two of the biggest sons of bitches to walk this earth in some time.

The duo enjoy kidnapping and torturing young people, forcing them to answer riddles and figure out strange coded messages. Their method of choice? Turns out that Walker and Baxter are particularly fond of nitroglycerine: they delight in applying the volatile explosive to their victims and watch as their prey does everything possible to avoid touching, bumping or sweating. As Ali witnesses, one drop is, literally, all it takes to blow an unlucky young woman’s head into a million separate pieces. Walker and Baxter are also really into horrible experiments, as we see from the insane, feral women that are kept locked in the building’s basement.

When Walker and Baxter go off to attend to other business, Ramon is able to get Ali free but refuses to leave until he can also locate Jackie: she may have run out on him, but Ramon is still very much in love with her and can’t leave her to the devices of the insane old terrorists. As Ramon and Ali each set off on their own, one to find an exit and the other to find his former lover, the stakes have never been higher: after all, when all it takes is one drop to blow you sky-high, you tend to be a little overly cautious.

As Ramon and Ali stalk through the house (and are, in turn, stalked), they come upon one horrendous discovery after another. After Ramon successfully locates Jackie, a new wrinkle is introduced: Jackie has been completely slathered in nitro and any sudden move will set her off. As the love triangle grows ever thornier, Ramon and Ali must work together to save Jackie, all while evading the slow-as-molasses but unbelievably dangerous Walker and his hulking partner, Baxter. Unfriendly punks next door…blood-thirsty feral women…stolen dynamite…all this and more greet our intrepid trio as they soon come to discover that the past doesn’t always stay dead and buried…and evil can reappear at any time, in any place.

Here’s the single most important thing to know about Cold Sweat: the film is a complete white-knuckle rollercoaster ride and it doesn’t really let up for the better part of 90 minutes. If you enjoy tense, thrill rides, look no further. There’s a lot of other stuff going on here (the political element, alone, could take up another page or two) but for purposes of this review, let’s get one thing straight: if you’re in the mood for nail-biting, needle-to-the-red excitement, this is your film, right here.

Here’s another thing to note: Cold Sweat is absolutely not a perfect film: in fact, in certain ways, Cold Sweat can be a rather moronic film (the bit where Ramon tries to get help by updating his Facebook page is, to paraphrase the immortal Tap, the very dividing line between clever and stupid). Here’s the thing, though: you really won’t care once you get caught up and the thing starts chugging along like an out-of-control freight-train. And you will get caught up in it, I guarantee.

You see, Bogliano is one of the current undisputed masters of creating and sustaining complete and absolute tension: when he turns the screws, he’s just as invincible as any of the past masters of suspense. There are certain scenes in here (Jackie’s agonizingly slow crab-walk escape from the equally slow but determined Walker; the amazing scene where Jackie constantly bobs up and down in the water, trying to avoid Walker’s acid attack; the scene where Ramon tries to help the nitro-coated Jackie down from the table; the attack of the angry punk rockers) that are so well-made, so perfect, that they deserve to be in a hall-of-fame of some sort. And don’t even get me started on the absolutely wonderful scene where Ramon finally takes down Baxter: shot in slo-mo and equal parts elegant and jaw-dropping, the scene may actually be my single favorite scene in a film…ever. I’m being dead serious, here: as I watched it, I tried to recall if anything else ever provoked that intense a reaction from me and I’m hard-pressed to come up with anything. Perhaps something from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1966) but it’s gonna take a lot more rumination to ferret it out. Suffice to say that this particular scene is one of the best ever and leave it at that.

Cold Sweat is an amazing thriller made into a classic by its wealth of small details: Ramon’s Sorcerer t-shirt (for those who might not know, Sorcerer (1977) was William Friedkin’s nailbiter about roughnecks trying to move an unstable shipment of nitroglycerin in the jungles of South America)…the undeniable sexuality of the scene where Ramon tries to help Jackie, right down to the numerous close-ups and zooms onto sweaty skin)…the bickering between Walker and Baxter, who may be insane killers but are also elderly men on a budget…the truth behind the blonde guy who first tempted Jackie…the generational conflict between the decidedly old-fashioned Walker and Baxter and the “snot-nosed kids” that they currently hunt…these (and more) are all of the wonderful little details that help make Cold Sweat so special.

Truth be told, there’s very little bad that I can say about Cold Sweat. Yes, the film does occasionally lean towards the silly and/or unbelievable but trust me: you’ll find that impossible to care about once you realize that you’ve spent the last several minutes holding your breath and praying that no one gets blown up. The film looks and sounds fantastic (the discordant, atonal score is definitely a highlight), has a great cast (Walker and Gioiosa are pitch-perfect and, if Espinosa, Glezer and Velasco can sometimes come across as obnoxious, this is perfectly in line with their characters) and a brilliant script. There’s also something undeniably awesome about a modern thriller/horror film that features a pair of elderly guys as its main antagonists: you’d be hard-pressed to find anything else quite like this. While critics and fans, alike, fawned all over Here Comes the Devil, Cold Sweat is the real deal, possessed of none of the stylistic quirks that sometimes turned me off of the other film.

The greatest compliment that I can really pay Cold Sweat is that I wish it were possible to watch the film all over again, with fresh eyes: when you don’t know where the surprises are coming from, it adds a whole new layer to the film. To that end, however, I’ll just need to try to see the film with as many neophytes as possible: if I can’t experience it fresh each time, at least I can live vicariously through those who are seeing it for the first time. So, if you’re gonna give this one a spin, give me a call: I might just be available. All Hail King Bogliano: long may he reign!

 

1/20/14: Oscar Bait, Part 1

Tags

Academy Awards, Ahmed Hassan, Best Feature Documentary nominee, Blackwater, cinema, covert military action, Dirty Wars, documentaries, documentary, Egyptian revolution, Film, Film festival, Hosni Mubarak, Jehane Noujaim, Jeremy Scahill, JSOC, Khalid Abdalla, Magdy Ashour, Middle East, military, Movies, Muslim Brotherhood, Netflix, Oscar nominee, plausible deniability, political struggle, regimes, Rick Rowley, scandals, Somalia, Tahrir Square, The Kite Runner, The Square

Since another four films were viewed on Monday, I figure that we might as well split the day into two, especially since two of the films are current Best Feature Documentary nominees. I must admit that I’ve seen none of the Academy Award nominees, thus far, so the two documentaries below will represent my first foray into this year’s awards season. Better late than never, I suppose!

As far as I’m concerned, one of the best compliments that can be paid a documentary is that the viewer learns something organically rather than being force-fed information or a viewpoint. If I can be entertained and swept up in a story while still learning something or having my current viewpoint challenged…well, let’s just say that makes me a pretty happy guy. As such, I was damn happy about The Square.

Taking place between January 2011 and July 2013, The Square documents the Egyptian civil unrest that led to the ouster of two separate rulers and the upending of decades of oppression. By choosing to focus on a small handful of protesters, all of whom end up interacting with each other, the filmmakers take a very big event and manage to distill it down into a much more personal struggle. Ahmed Hassan, the first revolutionary we’re introduced to in the film, becomes a de facto hero, of sorts, serving as rallying cry for the change so desperately needed in Egypt. His character even goes through an arc from optimistic and brimming with passion to hesitant and reserved to angry and vengeful and back to hopeful and optimistic again. Magdy Ashour, a devout member of the Muslim Brotherhood, also goes through a pretty dramatic arc throughout the film, wavering from unabashed devotion to the Brotherhood to later condemning it before swaying back to support it again. Magdy’s story is much more tragic than Ahmed’s, in many ways, since Magdy is torn by not only the politics of the area but the religious strife, as well. We also spend quite a bit of time with Khalid Abdalla, the handsome star of The Kite Runner, who returns to his homeland of Egypt to throw himself headfirst into the protests.

And headfirst is, indeed, a pretty accurate way to describe the whole film. Once it’s off and running, The Square rarely pauses for breath or reflection: it has several hundred years worth of conflict to document in just over 90 minutes, after all. The approach is thrilling and the access seems (to me, at least) pretty unprecedented. There were several times during the film where I became so caught up in the first-person view of the protests that I almost felt like I was there, particularly during the terrible moments where the government lashes out at the gathered protesters.

The Square runs viewers through a well-organized, clear timeline of the tumultuous 2+ years detailed here. We begin with the ouster of Mubarak, see the results of the army assuming control of the country, the installation of the Muslim Brotherhood into power and their subsequent ouster due to another round of heated protests. There are a lot of factors to consider as far as the protests and fighting go but I felt that The Square laid them all out pretty clearly. The clear emphasis is on the protesters, as it should be, but we also spend some time with the army and the Muslim Brotherhood, particularly as it relates to Magdy. One of the most chilling moments in the entire film is the one where an army officer flashes a wicked grin at the filmmakers and explains that they have absolutely no idea of who actually controls the country. It’s a small, quiet moment in a film that’s often bustling with activity and emotion but it put icicles through my spine.

As a documentary, The Square is very well-crafted. I was initially a bit hesitant, since I felt that the opening seemed a little rehearsed and insincere. In short order, however, I was hooked and just as caught up in the events as any fictional narrative film. Like many Westerners, I was aware of the broad strokes of the situation (Mubarak gone, army in control, Morsi in control, Morsi gone) but had absolutely no clue as to the actual repercussions of those living there. I was most struck by how universal the actual protest was: once we’re on the ground in Tahrir Square, it’s not hard to squint our eyes and see echoes of the Occupy Movement that (briefly) swept North America.

There are two moments in the film that really stuck with, moments that I’ll probably think a lot about in the future. After the military announces that Morsi has been replaced and that there will be a new round of elections, Ahmed gleefully pledges to keep protesting and encouraging others to do the same until the people get the government that THEY want, not the one forced on them. “Our lives are now to be lived in the streets,” he says, and I really believe him. I know, for a fact, that Ahmed will continue to protest and fight for what he believes in and, strangely enough, that gives me just the slightest bit of hope regarding the world. He won’t back down: why should we?

There’s another moment, however, that I found just as powerful. Towards the end, Khalid mentions that no one will really know if the revolution has succeeded for decades; they must wait and see if their work has all been for naught. The people will continue to question and fight, however: “They’re not looking for a leader,” he says, “they’re looking for a conscience.” If that’s not a universal sentiment, I don’t know what is.

I will begin by saying that Dirty Wars is definitely not for everyone. There are many who might compare this film to like-minded conspiracy docs (many of which seem to be available on Netflix) or propaganda pieces. It definitely expresses a particular viewpoint, a viewpoint that many Americans will, no doubt, take umbrage with. Luckily, I’m not here to discuss politics, conspiracy theories or political motivations: anyone who wants to know my political views is welcome to buy me a cup of coffee sometime and discuss them. My main concerns with Dirty Wars as a documentary are: Is it well-made? Is it informative? Does it attempt balance or is there a clear bias? And, perhaps most importantly, is it entertaining?

My first impression of the film is that the narrator, journalist Jeremy Scahill, comes across as more than a little pretentious. This is an impression that will later be reinforced by the film itself: there’s quite a bit of pretension to go around. There’s definitely a sense that Scahill and director Rick Rowley know that they’re telling an important story: hell, we know that, too. Similar to retro genre films that slavishly ape the look of older films without imitating the content or feel, however, Dirty Wars knows that it’s important and doesn’t want the audience to ever forget the fact. From Scahill’s hushed narration (which gets old fast) to the occasionally ominous cinematography and score, Dirty Wars is a film that projects such a serious air that it’s occasionally difficult to take it completely serious. Which is a shame, since there’s nothing light about the subject whatsoever.

Scahill, the journalist who originally broke the Blackwater scandal in Iraq, focuses his attention on the covert military actions run by the U.S. in not only Afghanistan and the Middle East but around the world. He uncovers plenty of damning evidence and stumbles across the super-secretive Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC) some time before it would later become famous for the successful military strike that killed Osama bin Laden. There are a number of interesting interviews, although the majority of the U.S. military figures involved tow the same professional line that one could find by watching a Good Morning America interview with the same.

Ultimately, my ambivalence towards Dirty Wars has nothing to do with the subject: nothing I saw changed my original viewpoint in any way, although there were a few moments that seemed to confirm things I’d often suspected. There were even a couple of moments that I found particularly powerful, such as the assertion by one official, regarding the JSOC, that “we’ve created one helluva hammer: now this hammer will spend a lifetime looking for a nail.” That certainly gives you something to think about. I was also enthralled by Scahill’s trip to Somalia, where he interviewed several local warlords. One, a particularly nasty character who also happened to be a U.S. ally, made the chilling assertion that “America are great war masters…they are great teachers.” Terrifying, especially when delivered with a lazy smile.

More than anything, I just found Scahill to be a bit too self-important and pretentious. There seemed to be a constant attempt to strive for greater and greater significance: I would rather find the significance than be told it’s there. By the hundredth or so time that Scahill whispered the equivalent of “I was in over my head and the walls were closing in,” I wanted to toss him a fedora and a bottle of scotch and tell him to just get on with it.