A Serious Man (09 Coens B+)

Republished at Gone Cinema Poaching.

Set in the mid 60's in a closely-knit, Jewish community in Minnesota, A Serious Man, the new film from Joel and Ethan Coen is being called their most nakedly personal film ("...their smart-alecky nihilism feels authentic rather than arch — you understand, maybe for the first time, where they are coming from" deduces A.O. Scott of the New York Times), a scenario bolstered by the filmmakers claim that the movie was inspired by their own experiences growing up in the Midwest. I'm not sure I'm buying it though. Like the "inspired by true events" title card placed in front of their last Minnesota-set film, the comparatively propulsive Fargo, I wouldn't put it past the puckish directors to be pulling another one over on us.

Here we have a film about the search for larger meaning, or more directly, straight-up answers in the face of the unexplainable. Why are we beset with miseries? Why is life so hard? Are there larger implications to the signs and symbols we see every day?

Yet for all the probing, the film resolutely withholds answers or flat out mocks the idea that anyone, even the most learned or devout, actually is within flailing distance of them. It's as though the Coens know we'll never stop looking for meaning or clues to unlock their own occasionally impenetrable work, with A Serious Man serving as a good natured raspberry to those foolish enough to lead the charge and do anything but "embrace the mystery."

Or is it misery? The actual quote is delivered by a disgruntled Korean student in clipped English to beleaguered physics professor Larry Gopnik (Michael Stuhlbarg) after half-heartedly denying his role in a bribe for grades scheme. Larry isn't sure he comprehends the expression and neither did I, but if it is indeed an auditory mistake, it's an understandable one. Over the course of a few weeks leading up to his son's Bar Mitzvah, we find Larry standing in for Job, as misfortune is rained down upon him.

A decent man (which could have served as an alternate title to the film) besieged by temptation in the form of the aforementioned bribe and the lonely housewife next door who sunbathes in the nude (photographed in a long, unblinking shot that somehow saps the image of all eroticism), Larry stays the path, searching out celestial answers to all that ails him. And does he have troubles: His wife is leaving him for the touchy-feely Sy Ableman (the unctuous Fred Melamend in a performance that would be legendary were he given but a bit more screen time) forcing him to stay at the oft-repeated Jolly Roger motel and someone has been trying to put the hex on his tenure application by sending anonymous, character-disparaging letters to the administration. His repulsive brother Arthur (Richard Kind) is an emotional and financial drain (it can't be a coincidence the character spends the entire film literally sucking pus from a cyst on the back of his neck) and his kids have little use for him beyond pilfering money from his wallet or nagging him to fix the TV antenna.

It's a life of a thousand, small indignities and Larry's desperate to find out why must they all happen to him. But getting a straight answer isn't in the cards as he jumps from rabbi to rabbi in search of guidance that's either useless, oblique or dangled just out of reach.

The film more or less follows suit: placing you in the same, always questioning, unable to locate your bearing, position as Larry. A Serious Man feels like a continuation of the famously divisive, final scene of No Country for Old Men, where we're left dangling in the wind as to what it all means. If No Country prided itself on concluding with an anti-climax, here's a film which scene by scene, nay beat by beat, is about deflating expectations often after much flurry and fluster.

In the film's best sequence, we see an extended anecdote about a Jewish dentist who discovers a message in Hebrew on the back of a patient's teeth and the great lengths he goes to to uncover their meaning. Employing every trick and knack in their playbook, the Coens breathlessly assemble the sequence like a comedian delivering a well-polished routine, stretching out its resolution to a near exasperating breaking point. To reveal any more would defeat the purpose of the scene but in a nutshell it serves to not only extrapolate the themes of the film but to serve as a reminder that often when it comes to faith, we really are in it for ourselves.

After I saw the film I knew I liked it but had a hard time pinpointing why and how much. I had trouble shaking my disorientation, as though my head were swimming and I was walking on an icy sidewalk. In the moment, A Serious Man often feels disconnected, like a bunch of assembled pieces operating separate from everything else around them. Characters and plot points are abruptly pushed off screen to make room for new ones which are no more likely to get their propers. It really does at times feel like one thing after another.

Yet appropriately, after some quiet reflection, the films intentions feel more clear to me. The experience not necessarily understood but certainly appreciated. A Serious Man handles largish ideas such as a divine plan, guilt and the idea of the Jews as, if not God's chosen people, than certainly one of his favorite targets ("just because the boss is wrong doesn't mean he's not the boss") and places them within a mundane, suburban context. The characters aren't motivated by greed or delusions of grandeur (which often go hand-in-hand in Coen brothers films). These events are merely brought upon them simply by existing (in a motif which skirts the line of being a Gump-ism, the film uses the Columbia Record Club as a metaphor for life: you do nothing and it keeps coming every month).

The film is both incredibly off-putting and enveloping. It keeps you at arm's length with its reliance on ellipses in lieu of actual resolution, yet ultimately it feels empathetic to the fact that we are all searching. And while A Serious Man might argue we're never going to find what we're looking for, at least it concedes we're all on the same road.

The Best of '08

Disclaimer: as of this writing I have still not seen a handful of titles which could theoretically factor into a 10 Best List. A small sampling of these titles includes Ballast, Doubt, Frozen River and I've Loved You So Long. Should I see any of these in a timely fashion I will incorporate them into this list. That, however, would not take place in a timely fashion.

1. Wall*E (Andrew Stanton)

If 2008 truly was a cinematic wasteland then perhaps it's appropriate that its savior was a hopeless romantic running through mountains of trash, and no, I'm not talking about Slumdog Millionaire. Destined to be marginalized by history as merely a great animated film or simply yet another masterpiece from Pixar (is that a yawn I hear?), Wall*E is not only the most entertaining film I've seen all year (full disclosure I've already watched the film 4 times in the month since I bought the dvd) but the most stubbornly cinematic, creating breathtaking imagery out of ones and zeroes mostly devoid of dialogue, human characters and cookie cutter, Disney-plotting all while crafting a completely original and terrifyingly plausible sci-fi parable for our wasteful times. More than that though, the film is the most swoon-worthy romance of the year; a film keenly aware of the transformative power of intimacy and how the heart (even one made of circuit boards and microchips) can flutter simply by having someone hold your hand.

2. The Class (Laurent Cantent)

It's so simple it's almost deceptive. Present one teacher, instructing a class of combative teenagers over the course of a school year and nothing else. No ostentatious subplots involving the teacher's love life or rousing speeches or montages showing students prepping for the big exam. No Coolio either. Instead we get a war of attrition between one good intentioned but flawed man (François Bégaudeau, essentially playing himself and working from a script based on his own book) and a classroom filled with hormonal, bored Parisian youths who view school as a weigh-station on the road to adulthood. A battle for the minds of the youth of tomorrow writ small and clearly one that's being lost, The Class is both depressing in its perception and yet encouraging just for letting you know there are teachers like Bégaudeau's Mr. Marin who are still trying in the face of crushing institutional constraints and a world that seemingly doesn't care.

3. Rachel Getting Married (Jonathan Demme)

Is this the first cinematic ambassador of the Obama administration? Observant, inclusive, slyly funny and at times utterly heartbreaking, Rachel Getting Married is a renascence from director Jonathan Demme. His hand-held cameras omnipresently capture every unmistakably human moment over the course of an emotional weekend while Jenny Lumet's screenplay possesses a rare gift for illustrating equal parts compassion and personal weakness without ever feeling forced. Featuring music and dance, casual multi-culturalism, larger than life guests (performed by the year's best ensemble cast), Rachel Getting Married is the sort of wedding you only wish you attended.

4. Happy-Go-Lucky (Mike Leigh)

How appropriate that a film about confronting pre-conceived notions about a person is the one I dragged my feet on seeing for months because it sounded lousy. Featuring the performance of the year by Sally Hawkins, Happy-Go-Lucky is often achingly funny in showing us a woman who's a perpetual bundle of nervous energy (think Gervais' David Brent from the BBC "The Office" only less self-agrandizing) whose positive outlook on life serves not only as a security blanket but truly an act of defiance against a caustic and indifferent world. Hilariously pitted against Eddie Marden's perpetually irate driving instructor, these scenes provide not just a foil for Hawkins' Poppy, but also a true test of her conscience. The film only deepens exactly when you expect it to falter.

5. Dear Zachary: A Letter to a Son About His Father (Kurt Kuenne)

The feel bad film of the year and hands down the best documentary of same. A first person journey of self-discovery that finds its narrator experiencing each horrifying new development in much the same manner that we the audience do, this is a film that will send waves of rage pulsing through your body. Unfolding like a Dennis Lehane novel, Dear Zachary plumbs the trenches of human evil (if at all possible, avoid reading *anything* which describes the events depicted in this film prior to seeing it) yet somehow finds unlikely heroes to celebrate, shining through from the darkest of places.

6. In Bruges (Martin McDonagh)

What an awesomely vulgar, wonderful little film. Seemingly cobbled together from all the most annoying parts of mid 90's indie films, In Bruges is an inexplicable joy, coasting on the charms of perfectly matched stars Brendan Gleeson and Colin Farrell and, with all due respect to the late Heath Ledger, Ralph Fiennes who gives the most mesmerizing sociopathic performance of the year. Never going where you expect it to and overflowing with bracingly funny (and did I mention vulgar?) dialogue, In Bruges may soon replace The Ice Harvest as the film I put on when I stumble home drunk from the bar and want to watch people even worse behaved than myself.

7. Synecdoche, New York (Charlie Kaufman)

The most divisive film of the year, Synecdoche, New York is a film by and for writers: a snake swallowing its own tail for two hours, attuned to the self-destructive habit of obsessive meddling and self-examening at the expense of fruition and life experience (he says while tapping away at 2am on a Friday, half written screenplay sitting a few feet away on his desk). Difficult to sit through at times, the film is however one that lends itself to countless interpretations and will hopefully reward repeat viewings, formally audacious and uncomfortably perceptive, the film announces Kaufman as a natural filmmaker.

8. The Promotion (Steven Conrad)

No one saw this film, but I feel confident it will find an audience and love down the road. A comedy of manners and class warfare where the smaller the stakes are the more vicious the fight is, the film continues on the promise of Conrad's screenplay for The Weatherman (another small gem that was largely overlooked) in writing genuinely funny characters grappling with day to day problems like paying a mortgage, negotiating office politics and keeping a relationship together. Is it any wonder the film made less than half a million dollars in its theatrical run?

9. The Visitor (Thomas McCarthy)

Like The Promotion, this is another small gem of a film. Unlike The Promotion people went to see this one. God Bless McCarthy for giving this part to Richard Jenkins, a longtime character actor best know as playing the dead patriarch on "Six Feet Under." Understated and inward, registering change in a glacier-like crawl (something even the great Clint can't do in the superficially similar Gran Torino) The Visitor is a gentle, proudly liberal film about accepting change and opening your heart to new people and experiences. Every bit as good as Jenkins (and way less likely to be awarded for it) is Hiam Abbas as the mother of an illegal immigrant who also unexpectedly finds change and hopefulness welling up inside of her.

10. Milk (Gus Van Sant)

Is Milk a great film or merely a good one that feels especially relevant and vital during these sad, close-minded times? Ultimately we'll never know but one can't shake the feeling that this is exactly the film we need right now and that it's as entertaining and light on its feet and well constructed makes it almost too good to be true. Formulaic and old fashion in the best sense, The film allows Sean Penn to give the most impressive performance of his career in the role of slain gay leader Harvey Milk; a warm, strong willed, persuasive man of the people who understood the importance (and power) of working within the system. Van Sant's film pulses with real anger and affection for outsiders everywhere but remains, importantly, inclusive of those whose stomachs were turned by Brokeback Mountain (the film cleverly front-loads most of the man on man action instead of teasing it out; force your straight viewers to confront their prejudices then move past them). An awards contender that actually deserves to be one.

The Worst of '08

Disclaimer:

I'm not a paid critic which means I don't have to go see every film that comes out. Therefore there are dozens of, no doubt, terrible films that come out every year that I will never see. I also tend to be of the mind that the average person probably can tell that What Happens in Vegas and Beverly Hills Chihuahua will most likely be shit without an assist from me whereas some otherwise sane individuals might actually recommend American Teen or Cloverfield so I'm glad to help out where I can in that respect.

1. American Teen (Nanette Burstein)

Shame on this film. Shame on Nanette Burstein, who once upon a time was a real documentary filmmaker, for turning this opportunity to create a Wiseman-like study of middle American youth into a demographic-pandeirng would-be-episode of "The Hills." Shame on its subjects, most of whom played up the worst aspects of their personalities to fit some pre-conceived notion of themselves (are we supposed to be shocked that the cunty rich girl has suffered tragedy in her life? Or that the wacky, artsy girl is likely an undiagnosed manic?) Shame on the kids' parents for allowing their children to exploit themselves in such a manner. Shame on the Sundance Film Festival for programming the film in its coveted documentary category without putting an asterisk next to the title. Shame on those in the critical community for failing to recognize (or is it simply failing to care?) that the film was merely one re-staged, ADRed, rejiggered, or flat-out fabricated sequence after another. The only people who shouldn't be ashamed are the American people who stayed away from this one in droves.

2. The Entire First Person Genre: Colverfield, Diary of the Dead, Memorial Day, Afterschool, etc...

You know what's really *not* that interesting? Films that are enthralled with the idea of the way we obsessively chronicle our lives in this, the era of YouTube. Providing enough meta-ass licking to annoy even Charlie Kaufman, 2008 gave us Cloverfield, a shaky-cam sham that was all sizzle and no steak filled with grating yuppies who wouldn't put down the down camera even whilst scaling the side of a building, fighting off giant spider monsters or watching their loved ones die horrifically. In the same vein is George A. Romero's Diary of the Dead where we find the filmmaker returning to the zombie franchise he created with a painfully shallow (and not to mention butt ugly) yawn about what happens when obnoxious film students are on the run from the undead. Limit these to one a decade, please George? Arguably more irritating are the art films that have turned this particular form of naval gazing into an excuse to beat the audience into submission either with the latest didactic on Iraq (as in the case of the as yet unreleased Memorial Day which unspooled at CineVegas) or to take clumsy swipes at an entire generation, like NY Film Fest favorite Afterschool which plays like Haneke only with intentionally lousy compositions and an unearned cynicism. So toxic is this particular trend in filmmaking that it spawned the two worst "South Park" episodes in history.

3. The Happening (M. Night Shayamalan)

This one began its life as a page-turner of a screenplay, which transcended its dopey premise through tense writing and a genuine appreciation of the idea that the uncertainty of what comes next is often more important then anything occurring in the present. Perhaps this means M. Night Shayamalan should consider a career as a novelist. A monument to ineptitude behind the camera, The Happening is tonally clumsy, dreadfully paced and altogether unscary. More distressingly, it features career-worst performances from Mark Wahlberg and the usually luminous Zoey Deschanel.

4. Hancock (Peter Berg)

You won't believe Will Smith can fly. Featuring the worst special effects this side of a Troma film (and those don't cost tens of millions of dollars), Hancock's wise-cracking, alcoholic superhero was beaten to the punch by several months by Robert Downey Jr. in Iron Man and the filmmakers gutted their own premise of having us root for Big Willy style run off with another man's wife by roping her into a dopey super-heroine subplot that seemed to be making itself up as it went along.

5. Zack and Miri Make a Porno (Kevin Smith)

Even casting real actors (and talented ones at that) can't save Smith's latest faux naughty peon to male insecurity and gentle Red State values poking through a haze of gay and scat jokes. Smith is almost 40-years-old and has now directed 8 films without showing any signs of growth either as a filmmaker or a human being.

6. Wanted (Timur Bekmambetov)

Nearly a decade after Fight Club bombed spectacularly, costing dozens of people at Fox their jobs in its wake, this thing comes along presenting a dumbed down version of the same ethos and a variation on the same special effect for two hours, and it becomes the surprise hit of the summer. Simply possessing an attitude is not the same thing has having something to say.

7. Harold & Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay (Jon Hurwitz and Hayden Schlossberg)

Who knew it was the directorial brilliance of Danny Leiner that made the first film work? Bringing back almost the entire cast and original writers (who served as this films co-directors) of the latter-day, stoner classic Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle, the sequel falls on its face both as a political satire and a comedy. More curiously the film ended up playing like an icky right wing apologia (how else to explain our heroes bonding with Dubbya over their shared love of weed?) after beginning with oral rape at Gitmo gags.

8. The Day the Earth Stood Still (Scott Derrickson)

This is the film where Keanu Reeves' alien comes to Earth to destroy all those pesky humans because they're ruining the planet only to change his mind because he watches Jennifer Connelly hug her step-son played by Will Smith's kid, Jayden, and decides "you humans are alright after all." Additional demerits for wasting Jon Hamm's first post-"Mad Men" role on an expendable, exposition-spouting fount.

9. Cocaine Cowboys II: Hustlin' with the Godmother (Billy Corben)

Another awful documentary of questionable value. A sequel in name only to Bill Corben's sprawling 2006 account of the South American to US drug trade, Cocaine Cowboys II focuses on the anecdotal life of sycophant and former drug trafficker Charles Cosby who rose to fame by having an affair with a Columbian narcotics baroness. Short on analysis but long on Cosby's bragging, the film is like spending two hours with one of the groupies who used to fuck Mick Jagger.

10. Jumper (Doug Liman)

Let's not kid ourselves. This is no worse than Doug Liman's last film, the nauseating Mr. & Mrs. Smith: it just doesn't have two of the biggest movie stars in the world to distract us from the hackery. An incoherent jumble of undigested ideas and wasted exotic locals, the only upside to this film is it probably puts to bed the notion of Hayden Christensen, leading man.

What I've Seen October 2008

Once upon a time I used to blog about films all the time. But then I got fat and lazy and started having sex again and I pretty much threw my blog out the window so I could follow less noble pursuits. Well I’ve been feeling the itch lately and on top of everything else I’ve got AFI in a few weeks and I’d like to try and document the experience as I used to back in the good old days. So here I am, exercising my writing muscles.

These represent some of the more stream of conscious writing I’ve done but they certainly get the point across whether I fall on the “yay” or “nay” side of a film. This may be a rolling entry where I continue to add new titles or it may be the latest in a long-line of “one-off’s.” Either way, enjoy.

Changeling (2008 Clint Eastwood C) As has become Eastwood’s tradition with recent films, we get the studio logo at the head of the film in old fashion black and white, one would imagine harkening back to an earlier era of filmmaking where 70-something Clint might feel himself more at home. Who knew it would serve as a nifty metaphor for his distressingly limited world view? Essentially a Lars von Trier film without the irony or meta-context, here we get (a woefully miscast) Angelina Jolie in the Bjork-like role of the long-suffering woman crushed by a cruel, indifferent system while a host of TV actors including Jeffrey Donnovan using a distracting brogue, are trotted out as callous oppressors. Eastwood’s painting with a very wide brush here, never calling into question our heroine’s sanity, while simply presenting the LAPD as corrupt and lazy with no motivation beyond self-preservation. I mean was there nothing more to the entire scandal than a desire not to be publicly embarrassed? Actually the word “simple” seems the most apt adjective to employ here. Cheers for the wronged woman! Hisses for the evil institutions! Jolie murmurs and caterwauls her way to awards attention (she’s working from the Sean Penn playbook of parental suffering), Amy Ryan reprises a variation of the foul-mouthed hard-living working class character from Gone Baby Gone, John Malkovich is once again unable to disguise his Walken-like weirdness in a relatively normal character, and on it goes. To be honest, I’m not even sure what Eastwood is trying for here. Guess I’ll just have to look forward to Gran Torino.

Synecdoche, New York (2008 Charlie Kaufman B+) I understand the hatred towards this film but I think it’s misplaced. Complaints that it’s merely Kaufman chasing a rabbit up his own asshole are, frankly, several films too late. A couple days removed and I’ve already doodled out a handful of theories about the film: Is it a celebration of collaboration, with Hoffman’s ever-expanding merry troop following him blindly for decades, going to a place where their performances end up merging, superseding and defining their actual lives? Or is it an indictment of endless self-analysis from Hope Davis’ Lynchian in her omnipresence shrink to characters literally being able to stand back and look at how others would perform their lives (and in the most on the nose allusion, the film’s unending curiosity with human’s examining their own excrement)? Or for that matter is it anything more than a Buñuel -like head trip, creating small worlds within the confines of its own ellipses, never really pausing to explain itself or ground the film in an easy to place logic? I guess the point is that it doesn’t matter what reading you take (although I personally prefer the cautionary tale second one) because the journey is so surprising and lovingly melancholy. There’s elements of Southland Tales-type hubris on display but Kaufman admirably seems to have both hands on the wheel at all times even when the road we’re on is windy and opaque. This isn’t to say every gambit pays off; not by a long shot. Everything relating to Hoffman’s daughter is utterly baffling (and not helped by the curious casting of the nearly 40-year-old Robin Weigert), Kaufman’s patented preciousness (including a house that’s perennially on fire) can be a bit, um, suffocating. There’s also an inherent redundancy to the premise which can be patience trying (by my unofficial count there are four “real” funerals and an equal amount of staged ones). Still, I find myself returning to the film in my mind repeatedly, which I really could never say for Kaufman’s more widely accepted Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Bonus: Emily Watson as Samantha Morton is perhaps the single funniest joke of the year.

Slumdog Millionaire (2008 Danny Boyle B) I’m prefacing this by saying that I’m overrating this, but only as it applies to my own scale. Most people will (and already do) like this a whole lot more than I did, which considering my disproportionate admiration for late-period Boyle (I’m even a pretty big Sunshine apologist) surprises no one more than myself. Which is a long convoluted way of saying that if I wasn’t such a Boyle fanboy I’d really nail this for being the facile and morally sanitized City of God (by way of Dickens) rip-off that it is. The star here is the setting (as it was in City) and Boyle’s joyous direction. When the film is divorced from its own dopey, high-concept premise it’s energetic and vital, casting a light on what still remains an under-documented third world culture. The film’s characters never really transcend their roles as ciphers (which isn’t to say the performances are bad by any means) so they’re often only as transcendent as the story they’re intertwined in. So, in summation, stuff with kids working as urchins for Fagin-like figure (complete with involuntary maiming) is riveting. Stuff with now adult characters working under the thumb of hazily defined mob boss plays like a bad FX show. Plus, as alluded to earlier, I’m not overly impressed with Simon Beaufoy’s gimmicky screenplay which makes the adorable mistake of confusing contrivance with destiny (then again Shyamalan’s been doing the same thing for the past decade and he comes from the same part of the world as this film, so maybe it’s a cultural thing). I’m willing to forgive how every question our hero is asked dovetails into a vignette explaining how he knew the answer but does it always have to come together in such a quaint and tidy bow? Eminently worth seeing though for the naturalistic child performances, Boyle’s zippy direction (there’s a fantastic early chase sequence through the streets of Bombay that puts to shame incoherent gibberish like the Bourne sequels) and Anthony Dod Mantle’s gorgeous photography which explodes in Technicolor hues of yellow, brown, read and green. It’s unfortunate that Pineapple Express co-opted M.I.A.’s “Paper Planes” this summer as the film features a heck of a sequence cut to it, the effect of which is mostly lost due to over-familiarity. Also, I hate to be “that guy,” but would it have killed them to just subtitle the whole thing?

Role Models (2008 David Wain B+) This is being compared to Judd Apatow, which really isn’t very fair. As far as I’m concerned Wain has been making me laugh for just as long (and with more regularity than) Apatow has and Rudd and Banks were in Wet Hot American Summer long before 40-Year-Old Virgin. As sell-out projects go, this might be without peer in melding formulaic high concept comedy (Wain and his co-writers came to the project late in development) with more scatological almost dada-inspired digression and grotesque characterizations. Sure, I could point out that once the plot kicks in you can anticipate every single dramatic beat about twenty minutes in advance and it all more or less ends up exactly where you would expect it to (complete with lessons learned and hugs). And yeah, the advertising for the film seems to highlight every dopey comedic set-piece and bit of broad physical comedy, but there’s a very good reason for that: everything else in the film is way too vulgar, angry or inside to ever put in a commercial. You’ve got Paul Rudd putting on a master class of passive annoyance and casual misanthropy. Snark has never been wielded with more laser specific precision which does wonders in cutting through much of the third act hokum that’s par for the course. And really, what more needs to be said about Jane Lynch who as a recovering coke addict turned community leader cheerfully over shares an increasingly horrifying back-story of degradation (there’s also a bit of business involving a hot dog bagel that’s so juvenile I feel like my driver’s license should be revoked for laughing at it). Plus, unlike Apatow, Wain can appreciate the comedic value of female nudity as well as male. I’m truly stunned something this acidic and angry even got greenlit. I suppose the best thing I can say for the film is I found myself annoyed at the density of jokes prevented me from hearing every third joke over my own laughter. Also, is Seann William Scott turning into a strong comedic actor or is he just blessed with exceptional taste in material (see also: The Promotion)? Who knew there was so much intentional comedic value in KISS?

The Minutes of Andrew's Evening

A cross-section of the evening:

I spent 5 minutes talking to her and she asked to get a drink with me.

I spent 10 minutes talking to her and she started grinding up against me while dancing.

I spent 15 minutes talking to her and she assured me how good she looks naked.

I spent 20 minutes talking to her and she flashed me the strap of her thong.

I spent 25 minutes talking to her before we exchanged phone numbers.

I spent 30 minutes talking to her before she told me I was 4 years younger than her boyfriend.

I spent 30 minutes and 21 seconds before my hard-on fell into my sock.

38 minutes after we started talking some dude with abs and a v-neck t-shirt shows up and starts groping her ass on cue.

I waited 2 minutes after I got home to delete her number from my phone.

FUCKING BITCHES.

AFI Schedule

Thanks to my good buddy Landon, I’ll be attending the AFI Film Fest this November for the sixth consecutive year, starting (for me anyway) on Halloween. I’m often critical of this particular festival as they seem to routinely squander both their standing as the most prestigious film festival in Los Angeles (FIND’s LA Film Fest has become a joke) as well as the scheduling coup of being the last major film festival of the calendar year. They’ve made a few changes over the years to be more in lock-step with the rest of the festival circuit, namely creating a Midnight Madness forum (this year rechristened “Alt Cinema”), lowered the price of their galas to an acceptable $25 a pop and scaling back on the number of American independent films which, in my experience, are often picked over after having failed to make a splash at Sundance, SxSW and Tribeca.

But this year I really have to take my hat off to the selection committee. In essence, they’ve created a year end Whitman’s Sampler, encapsulating the best titles from Sundance, Cannes, Toronto and NYFF giving those of us on the west coast a chance to catch up with many of the international titles journalists have been going nuts over for months. In fact, I’m so pleased about the job they’ve done cherry picking titles that I’m not going to bitch that they’ve split venues between the Arclight (which has served as the festival’s one-stop-shopping center for better part of the past decade) and the Mann’s Chinese complex at Hollywood and Highland.

I’m going to try and update this on my phone during my festival downtime (wifi signal permitting) so check back for regular updates. Also I’ve included all the leftover pieces that came in the box at the bottom of the page in case anyone sees a title that they think I absolutely should make a point of seeing.

And now in the highly imitable style of Mike D’Angelo, I present.

AFI Fest October 30 – November 9
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Friday October 31

Deadgirl (Marcel Sarmiento & Gadi Harel, USA): C- The appeal here is largely built around how gapingly offensive the premise is, when in actuality this is less morally appalling than it is inept at every level. Essentially this is River’s Edge reconceived as a zombie movie, with our loner protagonists inviting all their male friends to come sexually violate a re-animated corpse strapped to a gurney inside an abandoned asylum. But Sarmiento & Harel never land on the right tone, creating a situation that’s toxic to begin with (the two leads seem to have modeled their performances after 1950’s greasers film with a little Dylan & Eric thrown in for flavor) and descending from there, never fully selling its own premise from a situational or character standpoint. As a treatise on sexual politics it lags behind even this past winter’s forgettable Teeth and while it tows the line of Cronenbergian body violation, it ultimately lacks the conviction (or perhaps the special effects budget) to really go where sick young men’s minds will take things.

Saturday Nov 1

Revanche (Götz Spielmann, Austria): B+ Boy is this a hard film to qualify. From a strictly plot standpoint (and this most assuredly is not a film whose strength is derived from its plot) it’s essentially a Coen Brother’ special, with a get-rich scheme that’s destined to go horrifically and the aftermath of which can only lead to more bloodshed (I don’t speak German but even I can deduce what the title means). And the thing is, at no point will you be really surprised where the film arrives as everything is telegraphed by the 50-minute mark. No, the real intangible here is how fully lived in and emotionally sound every choice in the film is and how the consequences of every action taken are explored. In a perverse way it almost reminds me of Crash where we have a bunch of people bumping against one another through sheer contrivance but instead of knee-jerk histrionics and manufactured drama we have desperate people slowly coming to terms with the world they’ve created and their helplessness at escaping it. I’m really failing to convey the film’s loveliness but I take comfort that Mike D’Angelo more or less flailed about as well, although his enthusiasm for the film was enough to get me in the theater. If I can accomplish that as well then mission accomplished.

Wendy and Lucy (Kelly Reichardt, USA): B Another bullocks to the plot film, great. I wasn’t a fan of Reichardt’s Old Joy which was a little too minimalist for me. This at least has the benefit of external conflict even if it moves to the same aimless rhythms of the earlier film. Having familiarized myself with the premise going in, I was relieved to discover it’s not the exercise in miserablism I’d feared would be, in large part due to Michelle Williams defiantly pragmatic performance and an understated gem of a turn by stunt coordinator turned “where the hell did *he* come from?” character actor Wally Dalton as a sympathetic security guard. It’s also worth noting that as a lifelong dog owner there’s probably no way I wasn’t going to tear up at that ending but that shouldn’t take anything away from the long slow build that earns the moment.

Che (Steven Soderbergh, France/Spain): B

Sunday Nov 2

The Class (Laurent Cantet, France): A

Hunger (Steve McQueen, UK): B


Monday Nov 3

Time Crimes (Nacho Vigalondo, Spain): C+


Tuesday Nov 4

I didn't end up seeing anything. Mid-fest break required as the night's would get much longer and booze-fueled from here on out.

Wednesday Nov 5

Before the Fall (F Javier Gutiérrez, Spain): C-


Thursday Nov 6

Idiots and Angels (Bill Plympton, USA): B-

Two Lovers (James Gray, USA): A

The Wrestler (Darren Aronofsky, USA): B

Friday Nov 7

Sugar (Anna Boden & Ryan Fleck, USA): B+

Waltz With Bashir (Ari Folman, Israel/France/Germany): C-

Afterschool (Antonio Campos, USA): D+ This once announces itself early and often: a theme spending 2 hours in search of a film. Essentially, in case you didn’t know, a generation raised on internet porn and Al Quaeda beheading videos is likely to grow up disaffected and emotionally disconnected from genuine human experience becoming little glass-eyed monsters who regard the death of a couple classmates with the same level of muted interest as hallways slap fight or a viral video of a kitty playing the piano. Campos, who at 24 is bold enough to create a film around this idea, complete with Youtube-ready off-center compositions while at the same time is just immature enough to not realize he’s shot his load in the first 10 minutes and proceeds to beat the same drum with little variance. The film’s payoff is so poorly telegraphed I simply assumed it was accepted fact only to be confronted with shock-cut flashbacks in the closing moments. The film has its fans (or rather one very vocal one) but frankly I’d be amazed if it ever escapes the festival circuit.

Saturday Nov 8

Playing Columbine (Danny Ledonne, USA): C+ The missing element here is critical distance. The title of the film refers to the low-tech computer game Super Columbine Massacre RPG! that was released onto the net a few years ago, serving to comment upon (or exploit depending upon your politics) the 1999 school shooting and the ensuing controversy that predictably followed it. Ledonne chronicles the firestorm of victims rights advocates and media pundits that attacked the game for turning tragedy into entertainment (we see brief glimpses of the game where, for example, you receive certain point values for shooting “Preppy Girl” or lighting propane tanks on fire) as well as the weak-willed gaming establishment that buckled to pressure to bury the game and yank it from media arts conventions. Of even more interest, the film draws the corollary between the game and other “too soon” works such as United 93 and games about the Catholic Church scandals and Darfur, making the case that experiencing these events in a first-person, user-controlled medium is a perfectly acceptable form of processing grief. So what’s the problem? Ledonne also happens to be the creator of the game itself, meaning the film often undermines its own point in failing to truly hold its subject’s feet to the fire regarding his motives. The ratio of subjects who praise Ledonne versus those who indict him is about 5 to 1, meaning the film essentially serves as a self-generated pat on the back to its filmmaker. We’re constantly aware of the artist’s motives and as such everything about the film is rendered suspect.

Adam Resurrected (Paul Schrader, Germany/Israel/USA): C-


Sunday Nov 9

As predicted I hit a wall on the last day of the festival. Nothing left scheduled that day appealed to me and the tickets to the world premiere of Defiance that had been promised to me were withheld until the last possible moment, making it impossible for me to attend. I also flaked out on a screening of Milk that I'm now regretting. Such is life...


Not Getting to This Time Around

24 City
3 Women
Achilles and the Tortoise
Acne
Agile, Mobile, Hostile: A Year with Andre Williams
Alone in Four Walls
Better Things
Birdsong
Blood Appears
A Boyfriend for My Wife
The Chaser
Chouga
Defiance^
The Desert Within
Dim Sum Funeral
Divizionz
Everlasting Moments
Finally, Lillian and Dan
Food Fight
Gachi Boy Wrestling With a Memory
Gogol Bordello Non-Stop
A Good Day to be Black & Sexy
The Good, the Bad & the Weird
The Headless Woman
Hi My Name is Ryan
The Higher Force
I’m Gonna Explode
Imaginadores
Involuntary
The Juche Idea
Kassim the Dream
Kisses
Lake Tahoe
Last Chance Harvey^
The Last Days of Shishmaref
Lion’s Dean
Liverpool
Native Dancer
A Necessary Death
Niloofar
Nirvana
Not Quite Hollywood
Of All the Things
O’Horten
Paradise
Patrik, Age 1.5
Perfect Life
Pindorama – The True Story of the Seven Dwarves
Poundcake
Prodigal Sons
Proper Eyes
A Quiet Little Marriage
La Rabia
The Rest of the Night
Shakespeare and Victor Hugo’s Intimacies
Skin
Slumdog Millionaire^@
Summer Hours
Three Blind Mice
Tokyo Sonata
Truth in 24
Tulpan
Two-Legged Horse
Until the Light Takes Us
Visioneers
Waiting for Sancho
Wellness
Witch Hunt@
The World We Want
World’s Apart


^ Gala
@ Already Seen

Killing Time a Little After Midnight

It’s early fall in LA, typically my favorite time of the year and I’m restless. I’m waiting on an episode of “Entourage” to finish downloading, not that I have any particular desire to watch it, but I fear, like skipping an issue of Variety I’ll somehow be out of the loop if I don’t watch 25 minutes of Vince fucking toothy starlets while Ari confirms every belief middle America has about Jews while the show loft softballs at easy industry targets. I guess that’s why they equate TV with comfort food. Speaking of which I’m eating Doritos because I skipped dinner. I must remind myself that I’m an adult from time to time.

Feel like my life is in transition at the moment. Just extricated myself from a sticky personal situation (being vague because God knows who reads this thing) which suffered from diminished returns as the months went on. Just another lesson on the road of life. Work continues to disappoint me, both financially and spiritually. I fear I’ve been at the same place for so long and have picked up so many bad habits along the way that I’m ill equipped to go anywhere else. Or perhaps I’m just scared to venture outside of the nest (as precariously perched as it may be). I find that, like in relationships, I tend to stay at jobs way too long out of fear of prematurely ending it. Just not good at cutting the cord.

Speaking of relationships, I found out tonight (albeit unconfirmed) that the woman I was in love with in college, someone I seriously considered proposing to at one point is engaged to the guy she started seeing after me (I’m being charitable in this classification, as there was a little overlap at the end there). And I feel… strangely ambivalent. Not quite happy for her but in years past this might be enough to send me on a full-tilt anxiety spiral of panic attacks and pie-eyed nostalgia. I never really doubted that I’d long ago moved on and I suppose this confirms it. Still, always a bit stunning when she who once were “the one” is officially betrothed to another. All the same, I made myself a drink (killing off the last nip of Jack Daniels I kept tucked away in a drawer for just such an occasion).

Tomorrow is sure to be fraught with worry as it’s the first day of a terrifyingly short window of time where I can plead my case against a bogus tax levy the bankrupt (both morally and financially) city of LA has brought against me. It seems because of an iffy tax filing a few years back they believe I own and operate a business requiring some form of business license (not to mention years worth of interest and penalties). This is truly too absurd for words and an insult considering how little I pull in from work. I have my accountant working on the situation but right now I feel like an anvil is hanging over my head. My accountant and parents have told me to remain calm but why shouldn’t they? That’s like the surgeon who tells you not to panic about the dark spot on your lungs. After all, it’s not their body.

A few months back I alluded to some big announcement in this space. Still nothing to report officially. I can offer a little bit of info without getting into specifics. My company has been in talks to produce a couple of low-budget films this fall with yours truly ear-marked for some form of a producer credit on one or both. Of course I’ve been down this path before and when push comes to shove there’s still no money in the bank for either of them. I continue to do work on both and have been paid by neither. Story of my life. I wish I could tell you I felt passionate about both of them but this is strictly a money grab situation and should that money not be forthcoming there’s really no reason to bother with either project or for that matter the company itself. I need a victory here or I need to move the fuck on.

Those who used to come here for movie reviews are advised to continue reading my Twitter regularly as I just lack the focus to write about films at length anymore (sorry). I like the limitations of Twitter and the instant gratification that comes from knowing I’ve got a readership who will have my ever tweet sent to their home page. I will say this though: Rachel Getting Married is the most unexpectedly wonderful film of the fall. I didn’t have any expectations for the film prior to its strong showing at Toronto but it’s no fluke that nearly everyone who saw the film at the festival has fallen in love with it (even my boss, who has questionable taste, raved about it). It’s not some cookie cutter romantic comedy nor is it a dreary drama in the Dogme vein (although the influences are there and easily identifiable). It’s the sort of film you just want to embrace while at the same time is too painfully observed to bear at times. Everyone knows a person like Anne Hathaway’s Kym. Some of us have them in their families, and the film has the bravery to acknowledge that while we may love these people, that doesn’t make them any less of a burden to carry. No film has made me feel more alive this year and for that I am truly grateful.

Quick TV obsession to report: whilst watching the first four episodes of “Chuck” on DVD this weekend I fell head over heals in lust with co-star Yvonne Strahovski who is easily one of the five sexiest women I’ve ever seen. And I’m not even a fan of blondes. No idea how this show managed to be on the air for a year without me cluing into her. Truly stunning and, in a wicked joke I’m eternally grateful for, the show has placed her in a situation where she spends a large part of *every* episode in pigtails and a Bavarian beer wench outfit. The show itself is sort of shrug-worthy. It has an engaging lead and Animal Mother himself Adam Baldwin. It looks nice and looks like it costs a fortune but it’s surprisingly draggy for a super-spy show. Still, Strahovski is perhaps the greatest incentive in the world to watch and until I get tired of gawking I will be adding the show to my DVR rotation (as if there isn’t enough on Monday nights these days.

And with that, my download of Entourage has completed. This was fun. I missed this. Maybe I’ll get back into this. No promises.

Small signs of life (iPhone edition)

Don't get excited. This is just a test to see whether updating this blog with an iPhone is even possible let alone worth the effort. Not gonna lie: this is sort of tedious and taking a lot longer than I'd thought. Still, some exciting developments brewing that would definitely keep me from my PC for a spell that I'll probably want to document for posterity's sake.

I guess this test was a success. Check back at this space in the coming months hopefully when I can make a real announcement. Or not.

Distracted… Less so Now

The return of bullet points (not literally)

Covering lots of ground in a short period of time. In my head the “Montage” song is from Team America is playing.

Been absent in my blogging

I could make some excuse about having nothing interesting to say but we all know that isn’t true. Flaked on the Oscars as well as the half a dozen films I’ve seen in the past couple months (p.s., none of them were good). Was involved in a hellish low-budget production which kicked my ass. Then was involved in a startlingly rare “relationship” (her scare quotes, not mine) that really kicked my ass and am now pulling myself out of the flaming crater that is the aftermath. I hope to figure out what the hell went wrong there but in the meantime I find myself with a lot more free time on the weekends.

Been a Twittering fiend

I found my latest fix however in Twitter right around the time I got my iPhone. If you’re reading this now you absolutely should sign up for an account as there’s rarely any thought going through a person’s head that wouldn’t be improved by being condensed down to 140 characters. Sadly the more adept I become at Twitter the less need I’ll have for long form blogging. Call it selling out or giving up or simply no longer caring, but I think I’ve found my new love.

Feeling creative again

For the first time in months I feel flush with new script idea. This extends both to screenplays I’ve already started and ones in the pipeline. It feels good to be passionate about what it is you aspire to do once again.

Plugolla

Steel City will be out on DVD on May 6th. As I’ve spent the past three months scrambling to assemble elements for this event it’s especially rewarding to see pre-orders being taken at sites like Amazon.com and Best Buy. Hint, hint, hint.

Coachella still sucks

Nope, no less bitter about this. Andrew’s unofficial Christmas is still a floating turd and nothing in the past two months has changed that fact. Meanwhile Lollapalooza rumors are heating up and I may have to build a return engagement to the Windy City into my schedule/budget. I wonder if that girl still lives there.

I’m finished.

Giant Ice Cream Sandwich

This thing was so impressive I had to take a picture of it. If you're in Burbank I highly recommend you order it at Elephant Bar.

Meanwhile, who's the cute girl...