Thoughts on the Independent Spirit Nominations

My God is it that time of year already?

This morning LA-based Film Independent (or FIND) announced its nominees for the 2007 Independent Spirit Awards at an LA-friendly 8 AM PST. You’ll notice either from the weather outside or your nearest calendar that we’re not even free of November yet and they’re already rolling out the award season. Everyone get out your party hats. One does have some time to get used to these particular nominees though: the winners aren’t announced for another two months. In keeping with their status as the Academy Awards’ obnoxious little brother, the Indie Spirit Awards are held on a beach in Santa Monica the day before the Oscars which take place in late February, long after you’ve forgotten most of the films that were even released in 2007.

So why make Zach Braff and Lisa Kudrow get in front of the press and announce these stupid things now? Politics of course.

First a little background: a few years back the Independent Spirit Awards were run by an organization called IFP (or Independent Feature Project) which was created to nurture independent filmmakers by offering up seminars, workshops, occasionally funding, and networking opportunities. Filmmakers are inherently secretive and standoffish but filmmaking is collaborative by necessity. IFP attempted to bridge this gulf of personality and served as a valuable resource to upstart filmmakers looking to get their first films off the ground.

But around 2003 a rift formed between the upper levels of IFP’s management regarding the direction of the non-profit organization. Specifically, ditching the whole non-profit thing. The organization had become schizophrenic in trying to serve as both a fund-raising organization and a de-facto film school and a fissure was created. As though it had lost a turf war and had 72 hours to get out of the state (what was Bush behind this one too?), Much of the IFP staff uprooted itself from California and focused on New York City as its base of operations with satellite offices in the hinterlands of Minnesota, Seattle, and Phoenix (as well as Chicago although that one’s less of a stretch). Left in its place was the Angelino-centric Film Independent (formerly IFP-West) which was created to run the Los Angeles Film Festival (formerly the IFP-LA Film Festival) and the Independent Spirit Awards. These were two high-profile cash cows that brought national exposure to the organization but they also became the be all-end all of Film Independent; each a giant tent pole at opposite ends of the year which FIND could hang itself on.

The festival and the awards brought in enormous attention and dollars but were hardly self-sustaining and they certainly weren’t profitable. So sponsors were brought in. Such “independent-friendly” companies as Target, Acura, Pop Secret and Biloage (it’s an herbal shampoo they’re now handing out at screenings in little tubes). The LA Film Festival, abandoned its aspirations of being a mid-year Sundance and sold out. Big time. I’m talking making Transformers’ world premiere the festival’s center piece gala.

There was also a larger emphasis on expanding membership beyond filmmakers to film fans and patrons at large. FIND still holds seminars and workshops but they’re mostly set dressing. For $95 a year anyone could become a member, regardless of their aspirations behind the camera and the direction of the group steered away from nuts and bolts and collaboration and more towards guest speakers and rubbing elbows with Wes Anderson and Noah Baumbach. In addition to paving the way for a whole new generation of starfuckers, membership also fulfills the great, film fan fantasy of voting for the Academy Awards. Or at least the next best thing.

That’s right: the Independent Spirit Awards are decided by its membership. Ballots will be sent out in January to all 6000 FIND members, unless of course you choose to “go green” and cast your vote electronically to save paper. At its essence, the Independent Spirit Awards are nothing more than the People’s Choice Awards for people who frequent the Landmark and Laemmle’s theater chains.

As for old IFP, just because they relinquished control of the Independent Spirit Awards doesn’t mean they got the awards bug out of their system. The created their own, costal-specific awards, The Gotham Awards to hand out to deserving “independent” films. Admittedly they’ve endured some growing pains in trying to establish who it is they’re representing (two of last year’s nominees The Departed and Marie Antoinette cost a combined $130 million dollars) but they’ve also differentiated themselves by limiting the number of awards they give out as well as their emphasis on highlighting films without distribution. You might be asking yourself when this organization gives out their awards.

Tonight of course. Oh the pettiness of it all.

As for the nominations themselves, their mostly inoffensive especially once you consider FIND has imposed an arbitrary, 20-million dollar budgetary cap to nominees which precludes the involvement of such films as Atonement, No Country for Old Men, There Will Be Blood and Gone Baby Gone, all films which are probably considered by the public at large as “indies.” It’s also worth noting that with the exception of I’m Not There, FIND’s awards have mostly ignored the films that were Gotham nominees with Sean Penn’s Into the Wild being completely shut-out and Margot at the Wedding and The Namesake having to contend themselves with a single nomination apiece in the supporting acting categories. I suspect the Dylan film only made the cut because director Todd Haynes is practically the pope of the Indie Spirit Awards (his Far From Heaven swept in 2002 and they even nominated his unwatchable Velvet Goldmine). I’m surprised that Sundance winner Grace is Gone and sex-doll romance/fairy tale Lars and the Real Girl are absent as well even if I did find the latter overly precious. I’m personally pleased that the panel resisted the urge to shower Sidney Lumet’s derivative Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead with nominations but I’m puzzled that Laura Linney wasn’t nominated for The Savages. I’m happy for surprise nominees Fred Parnes & Andrew Wagner, who I got to know while I was in Austin this past fall, for their screenplays for Starting Out in the Evening. Now if only I’d seen their film…

So full disclosure, if you can’t tell from the above graphs, I’m a Film Independent member, mostly for the rare occasions my company attends a FIND event for networking as well as the 3 to 4 free screenings they hold a month. I voted last year and I no doubt will do so this year. Last year I was doubly involved as Steel City was actually nominated so I’m pretty intimately aware with the behind the scenes process. While the membership at large picks the winner, the nominees are decided by small panels who review individual submissions. This is how fringe titles that have never played outside of festivals like Sundance and Toronto can find their way into the running. Having directly benefited from this policy I appreciate the lip service being paid to legitimately independently financed and produced filmmaking if for no other reason than the collective “huh’s” that come from Awards “gurus” like Tom O’Neil and David Poland as they try and wrap their minds around why an organization would “waste” a nomination on the likes of an Anna Kendrick for Rocket Science (who I’ve had a crush on since I saw her in Camp 4 years back) or for that matter Raymond J. Barry for Steel City.

I’m glad smaller films will have a fleeting moment in the sun even if I’m dubious to what real impact it will have on them. I also know you can lead a sycophantic film society to water but you can’t make them vote. For an organization with the word “independent” in their name, there sure is a lot of group thinking to the voting process. As a rule of thumb, films with more nominations usually do better than films with one or two categories under their belts and films that have made more money at the box office always do better than films that haven’t. Last year given the choice between Ryan Gosling’s acclaimed addiction drama Half Nelson and Guillermo del Toro’s visually stunning Pan’s Labyrinth, voters gave it to the Academy friendly Little Miss Sunshine in a 4-award sweep.

Look, voters are lazy. Hell I vote and I’m lazy. Last year FIND struck a deal with Netflix that put dvd screeners on voters’ doorsteps and even I skipped roughly a quarter of the nominated films, and I’m way more vested in independent film than most. This year they have an arrangement with B-Side Entertainment to actually stream the nominated films via the internet which has both minuses (I’m not a huge fan of watching movies on my computer) as well as plusses (I can now fast forward to the “good parts” of Lust, Caution and Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead from the privacy of my room). Still I’d be lying if I said I thought I’d watch everything before all the votes are tallied.

In the meantime, I get to watch films. Lots of films. Some I’ve never seen due to lack of opportunity (for my part, I’m glad I’ll be able to watch Lake of Fire at my own leisure, with plenty of breaks built in) or because of poor word of mouth. Or to re-watch films I was underwhelmed by like I’m Not There or The Diving Bell and the Butterfly to see if I can get something out of them with repeat viewings. Or simply watching Juno over and over again until I know every line by heart. It may be a bloated, glad-handling, self-congratulatory group, but I’m a member and I’m glad to have the perks at the moment.

Fuck Myspace

No, I’m not joining Facebook. I’ve actually started weaning myself off Myspace as only a handful of people seem to bother updating regularly anymore (and it’s not like I’m one of them) but I logged in earlier just to see what everyone’s up to and I saw my ex changed her dating status from “single” to “in a relationship” over the Thanksgiving holiday (and what better time to make it “official,” right?). Truth be told I hadn’t thought of this person in probably a couple months (we barely speak anymore) but still, you never want to see your ex being involved (so much so they feel comfortable announcing it to the Myspace world) while you’re still hopelessly single. It’s really a pride issue more than anything; as with most things I’m fairly competitive when it comes to dating. Still: an important lesson. Myspace is fucking evil.

D’Angelo Stylie

Southland Tales (Richard Kelly) To crib from Burns: most filmmakers would be content for Domino to be the most retarded entry on their résumé… Tonally a miscarriage. Kelly thinks he’s a lot funnier (more probing, more insightful, more original, etc…) than he really is and this pastiche of stunt casting and fanboy wankery is 2.5 hours (!) of one idea smashing on the rocks after another only for the director to quickly move onto something else equally stupid and ill-conceived. This is why second drafts and strong-willed collaborators are encouraged. If you look in the rear-view mirror, you’ll see Heaven’s Gate. Grade: D

Michael Clayton (Tony Gilroy) God Bless Clooney. Aesthetically modern (plot device attached to GPS for cryin’ out loud) but so entrenched in a bygone era of conflicted heroes, sparse visuals and storytelling efficiency it runs laps around pretenders like American Gangster. Not really *about* anything per say (I’ve largely forgotten everything about the film) but it’s a real hummer as it unspools. BTW, in my version of the film he takes the money. Grade: B+

The Savages (Tamara Jenkins) Credit where it’s due: the film doesn’t pull any punches with Philip Bosco’s aging father, never reducing him to a lovable, huggable curmudgeon (Little Miss Sunshine syndrome) and following through on its premise to the bitter end. Fact is this is all perfectly fine (Linney and Seymour Hoffman are so good together it’s a wonder they’ve never shared the screen before) but the whole thing plays so right down the middle, flattering the audience’s intelligence without ever really challenging them (Jenkins, it’s worth noting, is married to Sideways co-writer Jim Taylor and the influence is impossible to miss). Frankly I’d probably cut this one a lot more slack if I didn’t see it the same day as Margot at the Wedding which took hyper-articulate dysfunctional grown siblings into a much more provocative direction. Still… Grade: B

Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead (Sidney Lumet) Yuch, we get it: ugly people doing unflattering things to one another. Time capsule of every shitty spec script that was written in 1996, complete with Fargo-esque caper gone horribly wrong and arbitrary Tarantino-inspired chronology hijinks that seems to exist simply so every scene shot can be used in the film to go with stark-black nihilism which has never really gone out of style. The film never quite kicks the direct to video feel; once you get past the leering and plotting there’s no spark of personality or uniqueness to the film (save for a brief exchange with Michael Shannon who seems to have wandered in from a far more interesting film). And did I mention “ugly” and “unflattering?” Tomei waits for *this thing* to spend half the film parading around nude? This thing may set digital photography back twenty years. Grade: C

Beowulf: IMAX 3D (Robert Zemeckis) I was about to discredit the film as an achievement in storytelling and focus purely on the visuals and the experience of IMAX 3D (I couldn’t imagine seeing the film in flat 35), but that’s not fair to what the film accomplishes with what has historically been a difficult, and according to some, impenetrable text. Much credit to writers Avary and Gaiman for creating a narrative through-line that turns a story where simply the protagonist dies at the end (we all knew this going in, yes?) into an honest to goodness tragedy. The film is eons more entertaining than 300, presenting an epic story in all its bawdy, drunken, larger than life glory. Films like this are supposed to be fun and this one is damnit. Zemeckis also takes full advantage of the technology available to him, inching closer and closer to photo-realism, almost seamlessly incorporating recognizable movie stars (especially Jolie, who even without nipples is truly a sight) into impossibly elaborate set pieces. As for the 3D, it’s not so much a must for the gimmicky, Jaws 3D-type projectiles sent hurtling at you (although unavoidably, they’re present as well), but for the depth of field it generates, creating an inclusive sweeping feeling, like you’re inside of a mead hall or a dank cave yourself. I don’t usually go in for bells and whistles but color me impressed. Grade: B+

A Poker Tragedy

I usually hate when people dedicate blog space to tales of poker woe (even Mike D’Angelo, who can make even the most staid and unwatchable third-world cinema seem exhilarating, tends to resort to navel gazing when reporting on some amazing hand he witnessed) but if I didn’t get this experience out of my system it’s just gonna eat at me for weeks.

Okay to set the scene, we were playing nine-handed, No Limit Hold ‘Em. I was first under the gun, but what’s important to note here is that the guys in front of me were getting messy with both their chips and the dealer button. The guy with the button had flopped it down between himself and the small blind, so from my angle it looked like the small blind was actually the dealer. How could I have made this mistake you ask? Well as often happens when people have been lighting up during the breaks of the game, he was getting a bit lax with getting his blinds out in a timely fashion (not that I’m bitter). And of course, I’m as sober as a priest so I look to my right, see the button followed by what I assume is the small blind so I dutifully toss out my “big blind” and, like a good donkey in training, wait for the action to come around to me (the presumed BB) before I take a peak at my cards (the preferred technique of pros everywhere). Except of course, the action doesn’t come back to me. I’ve just called the blind without even looking at my cards.

After grumbling about the sloppy chip work ahead of me at the table, I announce that I have checked in the dark, although realizing that doesn’t mean much of anything to this call-happy bunch. I finally peak at my cards and I find AQ off-suit, which is actually the best starting hand I’d had all night up to that point. Obviously, under ideal circumstances, I’d have raised (even first to act) just to keep the cheapos from out-flopping me, but whatever. I’m quickly appeased when the flop comes in a rainbow of 5A7. I quietly begin counting all that money in the pot which will be mine in a minute. I raise 100. The girl to my right labors for a few seconds before making the call. I dismiss it as she’s been playing pretty loose all night and I figure she caught middle pair with a decent kicker. A couple people fold followed by a quick call by an accomplished player. I immediately suspect he’s got an Ace but that he doesn’t re-raise tells me he’s not confident about it.

The turn hits and it’s a lowly 4. Another card I don’t have to worry about. I bet 200. The girl next door calls, which definitely scares me as now I think she maybe hit two pair. Mr. Experience labors for an eternity before finally folding. He recognizes the strength of my Ace, going so far as whispering his hand to his girlfriend just so she can appreciate his table discipline. I’m starting to suspect I may be in trouble though. A Jack comes out on the river and at this point I know my only hope is to check then re-raise all-in if she tries to bet it but thankfully (in hindsight) she checks herself.

We flip over her cards. She’d had a 23 and caught an improbable, bordering on impossible, 5-high straight on the turn. I was out roughly 40% of my chips.

So what happened? Putting aside how sloppy the business with the dealer button was, my mistake was pretending I was Phil Hellmuth and deciding not to check my dealt cards until the action came around to me (a practice that is henceforth banished from my repertoire). If I had bothered to look at them as soon as they were put in front of me, my sizable re-raise would have easily scared away the 2-3 which was a shit hand, and possibly encouraged the more experienced player to go over the top with a bet to try and defend his hand (which ended up being a totally dominated A9). But instead, I gave a player the chance to win with one of the worst starting hands in the game and paid dearly for it.

I was pretty much on tilt after that so when I was dealt pocket Q’s in position I went all-in. It was the right move but only because of my low chip stack. I actually got 2-calls (yelp) but was better off than both of them. Problem is, one of the guys behind me pairs his Ace on the flop and I’m off to the rails. Done before 10:30 and I’ve got a long ride back to the valley in front of me.

Stupid fucking dealer button.

Catch up part I

In the interest of throwing something up on the blog, here's some brief thoughts on what I've been seeing lately. More to come.

American Gangster (Ridley Scott) Doomed from its inception although no one else seems to agree. Grazer/Scott/Zallian are a perfect storm of miscast creative minds, producing a film every bit as down the middle and generic as the film’s title would indicate. Film timidly incorporates a wan procedural element (and middle-America friendly, white protagonist) to parallel the assent and fall of a black icon making the film every bit as daring as an Ed Zwick film (film might as well be called Dances with Heroin). Scott clearly has no point of entry on the material, so he compensates in the only way he knows how: firing up a smoke machine and trying to re-invision Harlem in the early 70’s as another one of his hyper-stylized sandboxes. Spike Lee would have made the Lucas character mythic, Michael Mann would have fetishized both the minutia and urban rot of the era, both would have been preferable to this assembly line product that’s as devoid of a pulse as it is a point of view. C+

Control (Anton Corbijn) Avoided writing about this one for the longest time as I can see through its flaws but finding it impossible to articulate how or why. Certainly the best of the recent rash of dead rockstar biopics of the past few years but I can’t help but wonder how much of that’s due to the relative lack of notoriety in its subject and leading man. Is star Sam Reilly really that much more convincing as Ian Curtis than, say, Joaquin Phoenix as Johnny Cash or is he merely working from a clean slate that’s not tainted by personal fandom? The film plays less as a greatest hits CD than it does a series of fleeting snap shots in the life of a young man doomed by his own demons, placing emphasis on tone as opposed to incident. Less structurally sound than ideal (the film drags in anticipation of Curtis’ death, turning the film into an impatient slog towards the inevitable) but Corbijn’s direction is stirring, lensing in gorgeous black and white scope, injecting the potential rote performance pieces with an exposed nerve level of energy. Plus, at the risk of blasphemy, the cast’s re-recordings of Joy Division’s material arguably sounds better than they ever did on the band’s albums. B+

Gone Baby Gone (Ben Affleck) I can’t be the only one sick of Boston at this point, right? The Hub has not only monopolized national sports over the past few years but seems to keep drawing the country’s best filmmakers to the working class hovels and corner bars of Southie. Now if only they weren’t continuously drawn to material beneath them. Like Mystic River (also based on a Lehane novel) this one becomes rather daft as it goes along, rolling along plot points straight out of an episode of “Law & Order” in exploring an undercurrent of corruption and urban decay, although I at least give Affleck credit for keeping his performances from flying off the rails in a torrent of Oscar bating histrionics. Shouldn’t be surprised that the guy who co-wrote Good Will Hunting has a gift for breezy, free-wheeling neighborhood speak, but it’s the first-timer director’s work with actors ranging from little brother Casey to veterans Morgan Freeman and Ed Harris to character actors from HBO Amy Ryan and Titus Welliver that give hint to the promising career this former acting punchline may end up having behind the camera. B

The Orphanage (Juan Antonio Bayona) Mucho derivativo. Another old-fashioned Spanish-language ghost story from Guillermo del Toro (playing the part of a Mexican Tarantino in “presenting” the film) although this one plays a lot closer to his lesser viewed The Devil’s Backbone than Pan’s Labyrinth. Lots of story for story’s sake, not much of it goes anywhere beyond creating a general sense of unease and approximately 2.5 legitimately scary scenes (mostly of the “boo!” variety). Captivating for stretches but once the dread dissipates you’re left with a vacuum that the film attempt to fill with mawkish sentiment it hasn’t begun to earn. B-

What Hypocrisy?

I can’t tell if I’m annoyed that C.S.S. has a song in the new iPhone commercial thus subjecting them to all the mass-consumer losers who are oblivious to under the radar music (btw, I’m loving the new Feist album)…

…Or annoyed that they didn’t even bother to credit the band in the video. Help some Brazilians out, would ya?

My Little Sister

An actual phone exchange from yesterday between myself and my sister:

Heather: Hi.
Me: Who’s this?
Heather: Your sister.
Me: Oh! Hey! What’s up?
Heather: Not much. I wanted to know if you’ve given any thought to what you want to get Dad for Christmas.
Me: No, hadn’t thought about it. It’s a little early though, isn’t it?
Heather: Yeah, but I wanted to know if you wanted to split a new iPod for him. His last one got stolen and I thought it would be a nice present to replace it.
Me: His iPod got stolen?
Heather: Yeah. He had a Nano, so I figured it was cost us $100 each to replace it.
Me: I don’t know. Nano’s are kind of lame. I’d rather we just got him one of the regular-sized ones if we’re gonna do… Tell you what: you didn’t buy it yet, right?
Heather: No I didn’t buy it.
Me: Alright, let me do some research and see what I can find. See if I can find a good deal on one.
Heather: Okay. So… your mother broke her arm.
Me: Whose mother?
Heather: Your mother.
Me: You mean our mother? Mom?
Heather: Yeah.
Me: Mom broke her arm. That’s what you’re telling me?
Heather: Yeah.
Me: When?
Heather: Today. Just a little while ago.
(pause)
Me: Why did you lead with the iPod?
Heather: What?
Me: Why didn’t you just tell me mom broke her arm? Why did we just have a conversation about dad’s Christmas present?
Heather: I don’t know.
Me: Don’t you think telling me how mom’s doing is more important?
Heather: I don’t know, I… I just didn’t want you to think the only reason I called was when something bad happens.

It’s worth noting that this is the first time my sister called me in at least 10 months. My memory doesn’t extend back far enough to remember what the circumstances for that particular call were but she’s not exactly making a compelling case for herself.

At this point I asked to speak with my infirmed mother who’s practically a quadriplegic at this point and won’t have use of her arm (which for those keeping tracking was formerly her “good” arm) for six weeks. Happy holidays!

But hey, at least I know what to get my dad for Christmas. This is my family.