March 24, 2012

Elle s’appelait Simone Signoret. France. 2010. French with English subtitles.

The American public will remember Simone Signoret as  the first French actress to win a Hollywood Oscar.

French filmgoers will, more often than not, think of her as the female villain of the piece. Tabloid readers will marvel at her famous pronouncement when her  husband, Yves Montand, became involved with Marilyn Monroe.  Here I paraphrase: “It will be impossible for Yves to unravel all the threads that tie us together”. Their marriage lasted until her death. As far as today’s  generation of botoxed and carved-up  starlets is concerned, there might be grudging admiration for a  woman who dared, not only to act her age, but even older. Signoret was not afraid of displaying her battle-scars on screen, although off- screen she admitted that she could have taken better care of her physical appearance.

To militants all over the world  she will always be worthy of admiration and hopefully, emulation,  because she acted  on  her convictions with courage and determination regardless of the cost. She and Yves were often seen together defending victims of  blatant injustices.  However,  like many progressives of her generation, she felt betrayed when the depths of Stalin’s perfidy became known.

I will always think of her as the daughter of Andre Kaminker, a pioneer interpreter who worked during the Nuremberg trials and  founded  AIIC, the  Geneva-based International Association of Conference Interpreters.

Do see this film. They don’t make them like that any more… actresses, that is.

[Maya Khankhoje, who was a member of AIIC for over three decades, still remembers her childhood horror when  she watched Simone Signoret in Les Diaboliques.]

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March 22, 2012

The Toledo Report, Mexico, 2009. Spanish/Zapotec/English with English subtitles.

Francisco Toledo is a graphic artist, painter and story teller from Juchitan, Oaxaca. The Zapotec speaking municipality of  Juchitan not only defeated the French troops that invaded Mexico in 1866 but also  installed a left-wing pro-socialist government in the late 20^th Century.  Toledo comes from such hardy stock.

Francisco Toledo’s work has been greatly influenced by Dürer, his readings of European literature  and his student days in Paris. There he shared a studio with other artists from whom he learned a lot and to whom he taught  a lot, not to forget, of course, Mexican folk art and mysticism. This film documents Toledo’s life, his artistic trajectory  as well as his fiery political involvement. The documentary contains  old footage, new interviews and animation based on Toledo’s engravings  which in turn are based on Kafka’s Peter the Red. There Toledo describes himself as an ape who learns from others, a clin d’oeil to his Parisian experience.

However, not everything is black and white in Toledo’s work or his thinking, as evidenced in his paintings and sculptures informed by Mexico’s oral history. The crocodile and other reptiles are a recurring theme in Toledo’s work, as well as other animals that inhabit the Mexican jungles. The ape, of course, is used by the artist in many of his self-portraits.

Like Gaudí, Toledo participated in several architectural projects with massive sculptures, notably in the very modern and industrialised city of Monterrey.

To watch this film is to both get a privileged glimpse into life in El México Profundo and a coherent  answer to a nagging question: What is the link between art and revolution?

[When Maya Khankhoje and her daughter Shanti were holidaying in Huatulco they were unable to visit neighbouring Juchitan because of the standoff between the federal government and the people’s government of Juchitan.]

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March 20, 2012

La Famille Stein, la fabrique d’art moderne. France, 2011, French/English.

Cézanne, Gauguin, Matisse, Picasso and Juan Gris have one thing in common, aside from being modernist  painters. They all visited  Gertrude Stein´s salon in Paris at some point or another , or at least had their works  hung on those high walls of her apartment. Initially it was her brother Leo´s apartment, later she joined him and lived with him until he left and she set up house with her companion Alice B. Toklas. They say it was Leo who knew about paintings and that Gertrude  learned from him. Others say it was the alchemy between these two siblings as well as the zeitgeist of Europe  that produced such fine collections which later made their way to museums all over the world. Be it as it may, all art lovers have gained from this marriage-like relationship between these  two siblings,  both of them outside the norms of accepted heterosexuality for the period. Unlike a marital couple, however, they had no problems splitting the collection when they went their separate ways.

It is one thing  to acquire an art collection if you receive money from your hard working older brother in San Francisco and buy paintings from hitherto unknown painters at a favorable rate of exchange in Paris. It is another to know that what you are buying, bold and innovative for those times, will be recognized –and endure- as masterpieces down the years and into the following century.

Leo and Gertrude had a special gift. Watch the movie and you will be regaled with authentic footage of Gertrude reciting some of her literary pieces and you might even get a glimpse of Picasso when he had a full head of hair.

[Maya Khankhoje has never understood why Gertrude Stein is considered such a literary figure. After watching the film she is eager to read more of her work.]

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March 19, 2012

Bone Wind Fire, Canada, 2011.

Georgia O’Keeffe, Emily Carr and Frida Kahlo were three of the most important painters, men or women,  of the 20^th Century.

Both O’Keeffe and Carr drew their inspiration from nature, the former from the deserts of New Mexico and the latter from the lush forests of Western Canada.

Kahlo, on the other hand, drew her inspiration from her personal pain and the bright colours of the Mexican landscape.

Each painter had a unique style, but the three of them walked a path strewn with obstacles. Whereas Emily and Georgia lived and painted in solitude, Kahlo thrived in human company.

The narrative is taken from the diaries and correspondence of the three women thus providing  viewers with a glimpse into their hearts, minds and eyes.

The film could have shown more images of the incredible art of these painters. However, in the case of  Kahlo, the film gained by showcasing some lesser known works.

[When Maya Khankhoje was a little girl she often accompanied her father on visits to her old friends Diego and Frida. She’ll never forget the image of Frida lying on her bed with her easel hanging from the ceiling.]

**

Beatriz González, ¿Por Qué  Llora Si Ya Reí?

Beatriz González, born in 1938,  is one of Colombia´s foremost painters. She has been called the Latin American response to pop culture because  some of her work is reminiscent of Andy Warhol’s silk screens. But the resemblance stops there.

As a child she was nicknamed “the artist”.  Her rambunctious siblings did not enjoy the privilege she enjoyed: that of  accompanying her father on different outings and errands during which he would comment on everything they saw. Beatriz learned to be observant, to question what she saw  and to rebel against the “good taste” which her genteel mother had tried to instil in her.

This rebellious spirit led her to mock politicians whom she judged to be leading the country towards fascism as well as  to explore the meaning of  taste, good or bad. For her a pluralistic society is a healthy one.

Beatriz started out by deconstructing copies of famous paintings or newspaper photographs to create something entirely new. With a 50-year history of armed conflict in Colombia, she realized that humour was no longer a valid weapon.  The newspapers chronicled so many tragedies, both personal and  political,  that her art began to be steeped in tears rather than laughter. However, it is not lugubrious. The combination of pathos and the luminous colours of Colombian popular art  is visually stunning and healing.

When demolitions started in the 1836 Central Cemetery of Bogota to make room for a park and other amenities, people were shocked. Colombian traditions, although formally Catholic,  are also deeply rooted in voodoo. They felt that the souls of the dead would wander eternally over the city. Beatriz González, of a more rational and humanistic bent, lamented the loss of historical memory and a place to grieve. When she realized that there were several units housing 8957 empty niches which had not yet been demolished she set out to rescue them by designing tombstones. For this, she created several silk-screen patterns to cover each and every empty columbarium  so that “the  wandering souls could be contained”. With this she also hoped to give meaning to a future Memory, Peace and Reconciliation Centre honouring the victims of violent death. Her designs depict dead bodies being carried the traditional way:  tied with  a rope, lying on a hammock or simply wrapped in a plastic sheet.

Beatriz González  is aware that her art is ephemeral. She hopes other artists follow her lead.

[Maya Khankhoje was close to tears after viewing this film, but her spirits were uplifted when she  bumped into Rax Rinnekangas who recommended she view his film: A Journey to Eden, very fittingly, about  and forgiveness. More anon.]

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March 18, 2012

Intime Etranger,  France/Japan, 2011.

This meditative film follows the production of two abstract paintings by Japanese artist Hitoshi Mori, whose body harbours  a slow form of cancer. The painter seeks out a barren rock-strewn landscape and paints a couple of huge rocks, or rather, the space between them. In between bouts of painting he either rests or visits the doctor in the company of his wife. He also occasionally shares a beer and a chat  with friends, or gardens in his kitchen plot. Everything is grey, the rocks are several shades of grey and so are the paintings which become more and more abstract as they  reach completion. Bursts of green Japanese landscapes punctuate the narrative. There are neither highlights nor dramatic moments in the movie.  It is all very Zen and very soothing. Just close your eyes and image the paintings for which, unfortunately, the festival failed to provide visuals.

Is the intimate stranger the illness that is eating the painter away? Or is it the slow process of creating an abstract masterpiece, a la Japanese with a touch of Parisian chic?

[Maya Khankhoje was fascinated by the process of creating an abstract painting which appears to involve a lot of meditation and a touch of slapdash.]

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March 17, 2012

Les Ambassadeurs d’Holbein—Rendez-vous avec la mort. France, 2010.

The Ambassadors (1533) is perhaps one of Hans Holbein the Younger’s most important works. It forms part of the curriculum of most art history and art appreciation courses. It depicts two men symbolizing secular and religious power as well as three levels of human life: the heavens, life on earth and death. Such a type of painting containing still lives and a double portrait is often known as a Vanitas. On the upper left-hand corner there is a crucifix partially hidden by the curtain and at the bottom centre part there is a skewed skull depicted in anamorphic perspective. If the viewer views it from the right hand corner its perspective will be compressed appearing as a normally shaped skull.

The objects in the centre are scientific instruments depicting latitudes, longitudes and other types of measurements whereas the broken string on the musical instrument denotes disharmony, perhaps of a geopolitical nature or between secular and religious powers. The rug is oriental and the mosaic on the floor is a copy of the design on Westminster Abbey. This latter detail is explained by the fact that although Holbein was Germanic by birth he spent many years in England painting the portraits of King Henry VIII and a couple of his wives.

The movie is technically impeccable, thought-provoking and engaging. Its most interesting feature is the panorama of the times offered  by the narrator.

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March 16, 2012

Casa Estudio por Luis Barragán. Finland  2010.

Where can you watch a film about an eminent Mexican architect narrated in Finnish with English subtitles? In French-speaking Montreal, of course, thanks to FIFA.

Casa Estudio, as the name implies, was the home and study of Luis Barragán, an engineer and self-taught architect  who went on to win the Pritzker Prize, the equivalent of the Nobel Prize in architecture.

He was greatly influenced by   Le Corbusier, the Bauhaus movement  and Islamic  architecture and has often been described as a minimalist.  However, even though he can certainly be called a modernist, his use of colour and natural materials such as wood and stone, have set his work apart.  For him, design should reflect emotional contact. As far as Barragán was  concerned, a  house should not stand out from its surroundings  which is why Casa Estudio is unprepossessing on the outside. He also believed that a home should reflect serenity and silence. Therefore it  has a Zen-like quality on the inside and is alive with colour and light.

Even though Barragán designed the urban plan for El Pedregal, a luxurious neighbourhood in Mexico where the houses are landscaped on lava rock, he chose to build his home in a working-class neighbourhood.  It was built in 1947 and UNESCO added it to its list of World Heritage in 2004.

[Maya Khankhoje, who  was born in Mexico City,  used to think Mexican architecture was outstanding. She no longer thinks that, now she knows for sure.]

**

Ai Weiwei. Without Fear or Favour. United Kingdom, 2010, Mandarin/English.

Ai Wei Wei is a Chinese artist and activist engaged in curating, sculpture, ceramics, installations, architecture, photography and film. He is also a social, political and cultural critic.  A true renaissance man of the 21^st Century who, according to this BBC film, is answerable only to himself, that is, to his artistic truth.  His politics are equally scathing against Mao’s vision of China and its current capitalistic orgy. He helped design the Beijing National Stadium, otherwise known as the Bird’s Nest for the 2008 Olympics yet he distanced himself from the Olympics themselves, decrying what they stood for.  Why then did he agree to design the stadium?  Because he thought his design was beautiful.

Whatever he is, he is true to himself, a man  “without fear or favour”,  who rose from poverty to great wealth and back again to penury, funnelling all his earnings back into his art.

These contradictory characteristics are not surprising, considering his father was Ai Qing, a beloved national poet and ardent communist who was exiled by the government in 1957 for defending Ding Ling, a Chinese woman author accused of rightism.

This thought-provoking film traces Ai Weiwei’s evolution as an artist, his self-exile to New York where he was influenced by members of the beat generation like Ginsberg and where, out of poverty and necessity,  he learned how to create art –conceptual art- with whatever materials were available to him. He also learned to destroy Ming vases and tamper with antique furniture to make a point about their value.

It also shows his return to China following his father’s illness triggered by the Tiananmen Square events and his decision to actively participate in his country’s destiny.

The most important piece of art showcased in this film was  commissioned for an unknown amount  by the Tate Gallery in London. It was two and a half years in the making and  consists of 100 million, yes, 100,000,000 porcelain sunflower seeds made by hand by hundreds upon hundreds of artisans in the region  where Ming vases were originally made. But this is a gross exaggeration, the Tate Gallery only bought 8 million seeds for display.

Ai Weiwei uses art to turn on itself. How subversive is that?

[When Maya Khankhoje visited Beijing the city was still ruled by bicycles, but that was in the last century.]

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March 15, 2012

The 30^th Edition of the International Festival of Films on Art  kicked off on 15^th March and will continue till the 25^th of the month. It showcases 232 documentaries –and a few feature films – from 27 countries on art, architecture, literature, dance, fashion, music and painting.

Montreal Serai’s pick for today is Gaudí, le dernier bâtisseur [France, 2010, color, French/Spanish] previewed in the Festival’s excellent media facilities. Catalan architect Antoni Gaudí (1852-1926), master builder of the Expiatory Temple of the Holy Family (Sagrada Familia) in Barcelona came from a long line of artisans who knew how to build structures and fashion objects out of wood, clay, construction materials, metal, glass and other materials taken from nature. Those skills, together with his formal architectural studies, made him a remarkable builder, architect,  sculptor and artist in general. He was also a deeply religious person who shared medieval man’s veneration for places of worship which were anchored in the earth but reached out to high heavens. As far as he was concerned, cathedrals had to look like forests and they did.  His main inspiration was the rugged topography of Catalonia, his natal province, as well as its idiosyncratic vegetation. His great love of nature  is reflected in his   penchant for curves and asymmetry.  How can his curvilinear pillars  support heavy stone structures that seem to want to sway like sea weeds­?

They can and they do, because Gaudí was an undisputed architectural and artistic genius. He was also a recycler: broken wine bottles, porcelain shards, bits and pieces rejected from factories and other found objects were never too humble to be embedded as decorations into the walls of his magnificent structures. He was also a social visionary. There isn`t a single house that resembles another one  in his housing project for factory workers. Gaudí, unlike the Bauhaus movement architects who strongly believed that form must follow function,  was obviously trying to compensate for the soullessness of the industrial era.

If  there are viewers  who fail to be moved by this film it means that they are square and rigid unlike Gaudi’s sublime and visionary architecture.

A deluge of water filled up the Sunday morning I went to see Varnam at the 35^th edition of Montreal’s World Film Festival. On the way to the theatre, I biked and waded through meandering streams coursing through the streets of Montreal, courtesy of a torrential rainstorm. As I sat dripping in my seat waiting for the film to begin, little did I know that I was about to meet onscreen characters who themselves would be transported very far, both literally and figuratively, by varying forms of water. The movie Varnam begins with a well and ends with a river – and a lot happens in between.

We follow the transition of Mani (played by Giri) from adolescence to adulthood, as circumstances force him to question his own privileged upbringing amidst the turmoil of caste violence. Two role models battle over his moral compass: his uncle Durai (Sampath) who owns a coffee plantation and exploits the local farmers; and his progressive teacher Kavitha (Monica) who challenges Mani’s ingrained notions of entitlement. Such a simple summary on my part might imply a cut and dry coming of age moral tale – but this is hardly the case. Writer and director S. M. Raju takes us on a roller-coaster journey with plot twists galore and themes of escape and transformation that encompass more than the main character. Caste prejudice being a central plot motivator – the motif of touch also makes appearances throughout the film. At points I was reminded slightly of a theme present in another film – Taare Zameen Par’s notion of “art as redemption”; Mani is an avid sketcher who often finds refuge in his drawings. However, even this theme is twisted as he repeatedly draws portraits of his father who was killed during a caste riot, to keep alive the flame of revenge.

Through the course of the story, Mani’s transformation affects, or is affected by the lives of Thangam (Ashwatha) – his low caste female classmate, Anwar (Raja) his uncle’s driver with secrets in the past and present, and Nanda (Vijay) one of the exploited coffee farmers who dares to assert his right to fair market prices. This strong cast is dutifully supported by another un-credited member: Prem Kumar’s magnificent cinematography. Beautiful shots of the landscape and rural life augment the narrative, and we are treated to a wonderful, chaotic sequence depicting the Veerapandi Festival.

S. M. Raju successfully manages to fit elements of comedy, unsettling brutality, morality, politics, forbidden love, amongst many other ingredients to draw the viewer in to his first feature film. He was kind enough to answer some questions by email:

1- First of all congratulations on your first feature. I enjoyed the film immensely and was very glad to see that this year’s Montreal World Film Festival served as the North American premiere. In Varnam, you use the setting of an upper-class teenager’s coming of age story to explore the harsh existence of the “untouchable” caste in a rural setting of Tamil Nadu. I was wondering if any of the portrayed incidents are based on actual occurrences? How was the film received in the area?

The humiliation of Nanda the low caste farmer is based on a true incident. The context of the actual incident and the location are different. But, essentially they are not very different.
Look at this article http://infochangeindia.org/agenda/reporting-conflict/sensation-and-sympathy.html
The film was received fine by most of the people. One journalist said that it was too much. Obviously he had not kept up with the news. And pedophilia across class and caste boundaries is not uncommon. In India until now only one person has used the specific word pedophilia after seeing the film.

2- At points, there are some pretty striking depictions of violence and acts of humiliation. When writing the script – did you know at the beginning that this was something you would have to portray or did it come about as you researched the topic?

I knew about the Thinniyam incident long before I started to write. I wanted it to be a pivotal point in a film on transformation of a young mind.

3- Water is central to your story, almost a character in itself, yet there are twists in its traditional thematic role as “cleansing” or “purifying”. Water is coveted, leads to death (and martyrdom), has a part in the sexual awakening of characters, and serves the story in other ways in your film. What inspired you to give these forms of water such prevalence?

I think sub-consciously (and consciously) I am obsessed with water. I grew up in times where we didn’t have to pay for water. But, water was not in abundance in Madurai where I grew up. I grew up watching people fight for water on streets. So as a habit I don’t waste water while showering because I think about it. Water like everything else takes on many avatars in our lives. Metaphorically it can cleanse or purify, but it is becoming increasingly difficult to find “clean” water. Along with my wife Aparna, I also have created dance theater works called “Agua Thaneer Water” about the struggle for water and “River Rites” based on the Narmada River struggle. May be in Varnam water has found its way in because of my obsession.

4- I would characterize the plot twists in your story as almost Dickensian – the narrative works very well in keeping the viewer hankering for more. Did you start writing the script with a clear outline in your head or did the story unfold as you wrote?

Story unfolded as we wrote. I had the important themes like the forbidden love, secret love, humiliation and the climax beforehand. The plot itself unraveled as we wrote.

5- Any plans for your next project?

Lots of plans. I have had verbal offers to direct two films in English. One to be shot in India and one in London. Very initial stages of talk. I am also trying to get Indian films. Let us see.

You can find out more information about Varnam at the following website: http://www.varnamthemovie.com/

The low-budget aesthetic lends itself best to local, intimate settings. Bedrooms, backseats of cars, unfinished basements are the places where people, most often young people, get to know each other and themselves. Science fiction and the ultra-low budget indie are seldom paired together, but in Another Earth the cosmic and the private are deeply intertwined.

In Mike Cahill’s debut feature film, the appearance of (quite literally) another Earth prompts a sequence of events that are as tragic as they are unfathomable. The film, which premiered at Sundance in January where it won an award and was picked up by Fox Searchlight Pictures (which for a film of this size is essentially like winning the lottery), subverts the narrative conventions of what we’ve come to expect from an independent film and takes aesthetic liberties with the science fiction genre.

One night in Connecticut, seventeen-year-old Rhoda Williams (Brit Marling) leaves a party a little too tipsy and gets into her car. She’s happy, elated, due to her recent acceptance into the astrophysics program at MIT. While she’s driving home, a news alert on the radio informs her that a planet, what is perceived to be a replica of Earth, has just been discovered. The person says that this planet is visible and is in the sky at that very moment. This information prompts Williams to stick her head out of the driver side window while she is driving a car very fast. While staring up at this new world, Rhoda destroys her own, and four others; she drives her car into a station wagon sitting at a red light, one holding a child, a pregnant woman and John Burroughs (William Mapother), a brilliant composer and music professor at Yale. The accident kills the mother, her child and unborn baby, leaving Burroughs in a coma in the hospital. Williams goes to prison, her identity kept a secret because she is still a minor.

Science fiction is based upon the extreme, the supernatural, the ability to create mind-bending situations, ones only matched by their visual execution. Cahill’s superimposing of lo-fi and sci-fi undermines the plot because it draws the viewer in with its visual minimalism but then asks us to suspend total disbelief; the issue is that we are attune to a different visual approach in similar contexts and so are unsure how to situate ourselves. At times, the genre bending is murky, not innovative.

After a title card informs us of several years passing, Williams is let back out into the world, one that now has an Earth the size of many moons sitting in the sky. It is an arresting image, one not only pregnant with Twilight Zone appeal but with true artistic weight. The idea of a mirror planet, a place that reflects each thing, each person, each thought, is central to the narrative, is the basis of Williams’ agony, and of her hope. Additionally, the image itself is more than striking; there are few filmic images of the past few years that say so much, while doing so little. Brit Marling looking into the middle distance, with a giant globe behind her, might have sold the film on its own.

Once Williams is out of prison, she abandons her future in science and instead opts to become as invisible as possible taking the job as janitor at her old high school. Her only friend is a fellow custodian, Purdeep (Kumar Pallana), who mumbles platitudes to her about acceptance while they scrub floors. While this is going on, though, she cannot resist the urge to reach out to Burroughs, having long since been out of the coma. One day she sees him at the scene of the accident, but frozen in shame, she cannot speak to him. So, unable to stand the guilt, she decides to go see him to apologize face to face. But, in the last second, she loses her nerve and lies, saying that she is with a cleaning company and offers a free trial. Burroughs, who is almost as run down as his decrepit house in tattered house robe and stinking of bourbon, halfheartedly agrees.

What follows is a romantic game of cat and mouse. Rhoda tries to fill the void in his life in any way she can, while John slowly begins to open up to her, to share his grief with someone else for the first time. After a few cleaning sessions, with the sexual tension growing with each visit, each meal together, John informs her that he does not know who is responsible for this tragedy, as the identity of the minor had to be kept confidential. She of course knew this, but pushes on, her sole reason for living to better John’s life, one moment at a time.

When not at his side, Williams dreams of going to the other Earth, to see if her horrendous act has been duplicated there. (The internal logic of this film is a bit unclear, i.e. if it is a mirror image and people are exactly the same, then why wouldn’t the exact same things happen on both planets?) Not being able to afford the million-dollar trip, she applies for a free ticket in a sweepstakes, calling herself an “outsider,” someone living on the “margins” as would a convict from hundreds of years before—her pitch is a comparison between space travel and the discovery of America. This time is spent alone, in an attic flooded in sunlight; Williams does little other then feel pain and watch the dust particles fly around.

As Another Earth moves into its final act, it becomes clear that resolution and peace are relative, and for these characters, never totally possible. To Cahill’s credit, he has crafted a melodrama of interstellar proportions; from the first scene, the stakes could not be higher. It is the level of drama and its interaction with the film’s lo-fi look that at times confuses the tone. With images like these, conversations about sex and the many disappointments derived from it are more fitting than those of space travel and the difficulties that arise from meeting your mirror self. The film’s premise is larger than life, and thus can’t help at times overshadowing the film itself.

There are twenty-seven sequels being released this year. The fourth of  Spy Kids, the fifth X-Men, the eighth Harry Potter.

Studio executives are trying to mitigate risk, the way a hedge fund manager might. This results in the investment in pre-existing products like books, graphic novels, comic books, now even board games (look out for the upcoming films Monopoly and Candyland).

Despite the complaints of a not insignificant portion of moviegoers, execs cannot justify (to their share holders, to themselves) the backing of a film without a proven track record. Comic books are an ideal starting point because they have a built-in fan base, one that represents the largest demographic of movie audiences, males between twelve and twenty-five.

Captain America is not a sequel. It’s better than a sequel; it is part of a series, The Avengers. Instead of growing tired of the same super powers, the same catch phrases, the audience can bounce from super hero to super hero, from blockbuster to blockbuster. Thor, Iron Man (which itself has a sequel), The Incredible Hulk (made badly twice by two different directors with two different Hulks) and now Captain America will all convene in next year’s The Avengers, a film that itself will likely spawn its own band of sequels. The most recent in this troop is Captain America, a film totally in line with its predecessors in its depiction of cartoon-like heroes and villains, though with the luxury of setting it against real-life horrors, in this case WWII.

Steve Rogers (Chris Evans) is a pipsqueak. He longs to join the war, to represent his family and his country but is turned away time and again due to his size. We see this miniscule Steve standing up to a bully in a New York movie theatre, only to be pummeled to the ground in the alley behind it. A glutton for punishment, Steve will not quit and so continues to get up only to be knocked down again. It is only his much larger best friend Bucky (Sebastian Stan) who can stop the fight, both saving his friend and humiliating him.

Rogers is a hero in mind and spirit but not in body. Chris Evans refused to allow a body double to act out this portion of the movie and instead asked that they digitally shrink his body in post-production. The result is a confusing one, not least because Evans’ voice is that of a much larger person; his tiny frame early in the film does not match his commanding baritone. However, soon enough a German scientist, Dr. Erskine(Stanley Tucci), comes along with a magic elixir, and elicits Rogers due to his heart of gold. As Erskine and Rogers become more acquainted, Rogers learns more about the Nazis, specifically Johann Schmidt (Hugo Weaving), a maniacal tyrant, whose views are even too extreme for Hitler. That notion in and of itself is wildly problematic.

The name-dropping of atrocities and mass murderers is what complicates the moral weight of films like Captain America. The first scene in this summer’s X-Men: First Class shows a brutal scene in a concentration camp where a son is separated from his mother and shortly thereafter a Nazi official murders her in front of him. Similarly in Captain America, the Nazis—the names, the symbols, the images—are re-appropriated to ground a cartoon/comic book in reality, legitimizing it to teens, defaming their grand parents.

Captain America is guiltier than its precursors in obscuring history to bolster an innocuous narrative. Schmidt is pure evil. To him, “Heil Hitler” is not extreme enough; Schmidt insists on disbanding and calling his new army Hydra, and their salute is with two fists raised, instead of one outstretched hand. What is the endgame in suggesting that the villain in a super hero movie is more evil than a real person responsible for the deaths of 60 million real people? The two fists raised references the Heil grotesquely, without any consideration of the cultural implication of lessening the potency of a deadly salute. Marvel Studios Micky Mouses history in fictionalizing it, and so defames it. This may have framed the war effectively for young people at the time, but, in retrospect, more attention and care are needed.

The little-guy-with-the-heart-of-gold Rogers is picked for the experiment and the result is Captain America, a man with exceptional, near super-human strength and physical ability, retaining his personality and level of intellect. The girl-who-never-doubted-him, Peggy Carter (Hayley Atwell), is at once amazed by his bravery and taken with his new physical casing. Their romance is tolerable if only because that comic book convention translates well to the screen, having a long-lasting tradition. Their love is one of near misses, of awkward glances and unspoken feelings. The fact that they remain unspoken is what makes them work.

When people do speak in Captain America, it’s in a stilted, manufactured way. People flocked to see both Iron Man films partly because Robert Downey Jr. played Tony Stark; he portrayed the title character with his signature cynical swagger. Captain America is as dry as Captain America, all blind patriotism and bland locution. “Hey, let’s hear it for Captain America!” and “They have bigger guns but we have more spirit!” are indicative of the overall level of sophistication.

Here good and evil, us and them, are without nuance. Good is pure good, and evil pure evil. There is no explanation, no motivation, only destruction for its own sake and the trusty allies, there to save the world, again. This monosyllabic explanation of war is acceptable, should it be depicted in a fictional manner, but the inclusion of real names complicates this.

After Bucky dies, after Captain America has completed the first few levels of this video game-like plot, it is discovered that Schmidt (now the Red Skull) is planning on dropping something like a nuclear bomb on the major American cities. Again, history is re-written in a frivolous way. In the final showdown, Captain America leads the American troops into enemy territory where, despite their smaller weapons, they assume control chasing the Red Skull out into the open sky. As the car with Carter, Rogers and a lethargic Tommy Lee Jones as Colonel Phillips chases after the Red Skull, Captain America finally gets to kiss the girl. Rogers then looks over at Phillips who says, “I’m not going to kiss you!”

Many actors do films like these for the payday, though in the case of Jones, it is almost as if we see the pay stub labeled to his jacket instead of a medal, his level of boredom is so blatant.

In the nick of time, Captain America leaps from car to plane and soars into the sky to defeat the villain on the last level. Before he can get to the Red Skull, he needs to go through his henchmen. Falling out of the sky onto another plane, Rogers dukes it out with a soldier while standing atop an airplane. Deftly maneuvering while going five hundred miles per hour, Rogers throws the man into the propeller quickly turning him into shreds of blood and guts. The only thing adult about Captain America, as with other super hero films, is its depiction of violence, which doesn’t omit the gruesome—just enough to bring in the teens, just too little to avoid an R-rating. Finally Captain America and the Red Skull are face to face and that plays out the only way it can: Schmidt’s Satan-like obsession with power consumes him. This leaves Rogers with an airplane full of warheads and the Jesus-like duty of sacrificing himself for the good of humankind.

This is not the first super hero movie to employ religious motifs; Superman Returns was particularly chastised for its Christ-like imagery. Rogers crashes the plane into an iceberg, saving the day. He then promptly wakes up seventy years later with a one-eyed Samuel L. Jackson (Nick Fury) staring back at him. All of The Avengers

lead-up films end this way, in the present somehow or other, with Jackson leading them by the hand into next summer’s blockbuster.

Captain America is no different than other films and that is its main detraction. Studios have stopped even trying to make super hero movies different from each other. This newest rendition is Marvel Studios at its most formulaic. Captain America doesn’t have a dark side,  the Red Skull has no good in him. With a black and white moral framework, the audience is unable to relate to either character. And so, we find ourselves rooting for no one, indifferent to a war that defined the last century. Indeed, the greatest crime committed was not of a fictional villain but of a juggernaut like Marvel Studios fictionalizing the past.

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August 27, 2011

 
What a Beautiful Day. Italy. Director: Gennaro Nunziante.

What we have here is what Italians know how to do best: a comedy that will make you laugh and tons of love, art, religion and food, not necessarily in that order. Checco is an inept mamma’s boy who has failed three times to become a carabiniere until he finally succeeds thanks to nepotism. He keeps getting kicked up in the ranks because nobody wants him and is finally assigned to guard the Madonna that crowns the Milan cathedral.  Before long he falls in love with an attractive Arab student who befriends him but she is not who she says she is. She and her brother are actually using him as a patsy to plot a terrorist attack. You’ve guessed it! She has a change of heart, but not to worry, the ending is not “a la ‘Ollywood’.  The director introduced his film as politically incorrect. But is it really?

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August 26, 2011

Five Square Meters. Spain. Director: Max Lemcke.

This is the story of Alex and Virginia who became victims of real-estate speculation and government corruption. They plan to get married so they borrow over their heads to put a down payment on a condo with a view of the sea. Not only was the skeleton of the building shoddily built but the whole project was halted when an elusive lynx is spotted in the area which is then declared off limits to construction, so the condo project is abruptly  halted. Several years down the road they are still homeless and moneyless.  Alex loses his job and his marriage and starts losing it.  Since the justice system has failed them  Alex decides to take desperate measures. A drama with a comedic touch set in Alicante, Spain, but it could have easily been set in La Belle Province, Canada.

It’s Nobody’s Fault. Spain. Short feature film. Director: Esteban Crespo.

We see him driving home, taking his tie off with glee and practicing how to tell his wife that he is leaving her “for the good of both of us, darling”. He’s had enough with the rat race, the suburban commute, the mortgage, domesticity. When he gets there and tries to speak up she shushes him because the baby is asleep so they continue their conversation upstairs. When he finally manages to get the message across, she is at first devastated and then agrees with him and starts packing the children’s clothes so that he and the children can move out temporarily. Then she realizes that she is being selfish, and suggests that he stay home with the kids while she goes to live with her wild friend and join the women’s band they dismantled when she got married. He capitulates and decides to stay married. Hilarious! Except that I’m sure it’s happened to your best friend.

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August 25, 2011

Art of Love. France. Director:Emmanuel Mouret

Caveat: The Art of Love is a title that has been used by other movies –and books-  in the past. In fact when psychoanalyst Eric Fromm wrote a book with a similar title in 1956  the book became a hit because readers thought Fromm was talking about eroticism. This movie, directed by Emmanuel Mouret, is from France and yes, this one is about eroticism although love is a subtext. As can be deduced from the photograph, there are several characters and several love-stories all of them depicting different aspects of that familiar yet incomprehensible illusion called love. It is a smart, entertaining and charming movie with an excellent cast. A great antidote for our depressing times. Go see it. You will be either enlightened or further baffled.

Tatanka. Italy. Director: Giuseppe Gagliardi.

Tatanka is a name with a noble lineage. To the indigenous people of North America it means the great bison, to the Sioux nation it is the name of Tatanka Iyotake, or Sitting Bull, respected medicine man and hero, to contemporary Americans it is the professional name of Chris Davis, a well-known wrestler. Our cinematic hero, however, hails from Italy,  more specifically from Naples, from where he is trying to box  his way to a more secure future.  His efforts take him to Germany where he takes part in illegal boxing matches until he meets a coach willing to train him professionally.   The heady mix of brain and brawn packs a powerful punch. Lovers of the sport will be regaled with an actor whose physique looks the part and with stunt-men who do a spectacular job. The movie ends with the exhortation not to fight for oneself, not to fight for money, not even to fight for one’s girl but to fight for all.  A message worthy of the original Tatanka of the Sioux Nation.

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August 24, 2011

Above Us Only Sky. Germany. Director: Jan Schomburg.

Yet another German film about loss, denial and redemption. In A Family of Three (August 22) a family unravels after the death of the mother. In Above Us Only Sky, it is the husband who dies leaving his widow not only grieving for him but wondering who he really was. But before she can drive off to warmer climes she must face the cold truth.

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August 23, 2011

The Real American. Joe McCarthy, docudrama. Germany. Director: Lutz Hachmeister.

This 94-minute movie traces the rise of Senator Joe McCarthy from his dirt-poor farming origins in Wisconsin to the U.S. Senate in Washington. We learn that for McCarthy getting rid of communists was akin to battering to death the skunks that harassed his mother’s chicken coop, a task he performed with glee when he was a young boy. I’m sure it is an informative film, but  I did not find it engaging. When the New York earthquake  that made its way to downtown Montreal shook me from my lethargy, I fled the scene. I don’t know how the movie ended, but somewhere along the way I did find out that McCarthy died of a liquor-induced hepatitis. If you are too young to know his name, please do see the movie. You will learn that  McCarthyism, which is making a comeback,  is an insidious process that must be stopped in its tracks.

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August 22, 2011

Love and Slaps. Italy. Director: Sergio Castellitto.

Marry Woody Allan to a beautiful psychologist, give him a daughter as rebellious and beautiful as you can imagine and invite his buddies, his daughter’s chums and a couple of his wife’s patients  for a long weekend in Tuscany and you have the makings of a film which is both entertaining and profound. Intergenerational conflicts, fear of death, liberal hypocrisy and pure Italian farce commingle with the wisdom of the world-weary.  If you want a break from the usual morbid fare of film festivals, watch Love and Slaps.  You might feel like slapping some of the characters, but you will certainly love the film.

A Family of Three. Germany. Director: Pia Strietman.

This is the story of  your average dysfunctional family in which the father fools around, the grown-up son avoids conflict by living as far away as possible and the teenage daughter is doing what teenagers do best: experimenting with sex, alcohol and rock n’ roll, but not very successfully. The only one who has her act together is the mother,  an award-winning author who leaves her family bereft when she dies in a car crash. This event is the cue for the family to unravel in the days leading up to the funeral. But not to worry, grief, or rather the expression of grief,  can be life-affirming. German cinema has traditionally dealt with issues of guilt over WWII. Younger film-makers want to expiate the guilt of  emotional numbness by looking inward into their own hearts.  Go see the film. You might find it healing.

Mystery of the Lagoons. Venezuela. Director: Atahualpa Lichy.

Mystery of the Lagoons has been billed as a documentary but it can also be considered a tonal poem with the lagoons of the Andean peaks in Venezuela as backdrop. It is an anthropological study of a population that has remained isolated from modernity by geography and the absence of T.V. and internet, hence it is frozen in time. There is a radio station, however, that creates a virtual sense of  community. Through the  radio veterinarians are summoned, births and deaths are announced  and personal messages are exchanged. And of course music is given wings.

Although the film consists of a series of interviews and episodes with the local peasants, a sense of unity is provided by the narrative voice which in this case is traditional music. The beauty of the Andes, tales of a monster serpent living in the depths of the lagoon, myths about the creation of the earth and old battles are the themes of the lyrics. Almost all the men seem to play  string instruments made out of calabashes or  armadillo carapaces  with the notable exception of the King of the Violin who plays a violin in imaginative ways. In fact, violins are quite common in these remote hamlets even though they are not traditionally played elsewhere in Venezuela.  Lore says that perhaps a German potentate who was given land there during colonial times might have introduced the instrument.

Some viewers might, will be, horrified at the sight of some macabre mourning rituals, but these scenes will soon be overwritten by the sight of the mysterious lagoons that nestle in the crevices of the Venezuelan Andes.

*****

August 21, 2011

Khodorkovsky is the story of the rise and fall of Mikhail Borisovich Khodorkovsky, a former Communist Youth League member who rose to become the richest man in Russia, the biggest world billionaire under forty, the czar of Russia’s oil empire  and one of the most controversial personalities in his country. He is also known for his philanthropy, self-confidence and intelligence, although he has also been called durak … stupid!

Khodorkovsky is currently serving a second sentence in Siberia for fraud, embezzlement and tax evasion.  Both his detractors as well as his admirers augur him a future in national politics if and when released from jail which, according to the documentary, is not likely to happen while Vladimir Putin is still in power.

Cyril Tuschi produced this documentary with a shoe-string budget but somehow managed to obtain an interview with Khodorkovsky during a hearing in court. Others were interviewed as well, including his first-born son, his former wife and notably, Dmitry Gololbov, former deputy head of the legal department of Khodorkovsky’s oil firm Yukos. It is Gololbov who calls him stupid for having allowed himself to get caught, whereas he should have, the legal counsel felt, availed himself of the opportunity offered him indirectly to stay abroad and negotiate for the protection of his former associates.

A very important question that the film raises, albeit does not answer, is the following: Why did Khodorkovsky return to Russia when he was aware of his imminent arrest? According to Christian Michel, a business consultant,  Khodorkovsky wanted to become a martyr in the eyes of the Russian electorate  before running for office to replace Putin. Such a gambit would fit in with the personality of a man whose residential  compound for the Yukos executives in the outskirts of Moscow has been kept in tip-top shape all  these years for the imminent  return of its tenants. His admirers say that such a stance is proof of his moral character, his detractors consider it proof of his arrogance.

The documentary paints Khodorkovsky as a man who initially acted within the mores prevailing in post perestroika Russia and then went on to become an upstanding Western style businessmen who religiously paid his taxes and followed the rules. It is easy for the viewer to root for Khodorkovsky, forgetting that the documentary mainly interviews his sympathizers and the odd detractor. Why was his second wife never interviewed? Putin, of course, refused to be interviewed. All the public has is a slick, extremely well-crafted documentary that proves this so-called realistic genre is an art form like any other and that art sometimes trumps the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. This is especially true when the hero/villain is handsome, sexy and self-confident as well as a friend of Bush and the likes.

Was the hero capable of murder? Will he be let out of jail? Go and find out. Estonian composer Arvo Pärt provides the background music to this thriller worthy of James Bond.

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August 20, 2011

Montreal is a festive city, or at least a city afflicted with festivalitis. The 35^th Montreal World Film Festival (FFM, 18-28 August 2011,  www.ffm-montreal.org) is but one of many manifestations of this fortuitous malady. It is also what makes Montreal what it is: a city rich in culture and joie-de-vivre. Most importantly, it proves that  Montreal values cultural traditions that have come from afar and appropriates them. Films allow us to peek into other people’s homes to see how they live and what makes them tick  and in so doing, to understand them, so that they stop being them and become us.

Now, having a press pass to watch as many films as you like  is both a privilege as well as a responsibility. Moreover, expecting to write about all theses films is a daunting task. A better choice is to single out a film here and there so that exotic sounds and images can permeate one’s senses and make sense.

Let’s start with Moonlight Mask (Gekko No Kamen), signed Itsuji Itao, one of Japan’s leading comedians, actors and debutant directors. WWII is over and a disfigured  soldier returns home after a two-year hiatus and is “recognized” and accepted  by  his former fiancée and theatre family of which he had been a distinguished member.  Attempts are made to reintegrate him into his rakugo or story-telling profession. Rakugo is a traditional performance akin to modern stand-up comedy, except that the performer remains seated throughout and plays several characters. In Japanese there is an expression similar to the Spanish “matar/se de risa”, to kill yourself or others through laughter. In Gekko No Kamen, the characters and audience laugh  throughout what is a tragic plot: a soldier thought to be dead returns to life but cannot leave behind the dead comrade who in turn thinks he has returned to life not knowing he is dead. It is a film about memory, identity and the evanescent nature of certitudes.

Go see the film, immerse yourself in its moonlit vistas, let go of your Cartesian  preconceptions and enjoy a modern-day version of rakugo at its best. And if you are lucky, the director/leading man might be in the theatre, dressed in a pristine white tuxedo, ready to answer the questions that a Japanese might never ask.

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Taking Root Film Poster

Taking Root. The vision of Wangari Maathai. Documentary. DVD 2008, Mongrel Media.

            Taking Root is the story of Wangari Maathai’s life-long journey as a child in her native village in Kenya all the way to Oslo where in 2004, at 63,  she received the Nobel Peace Prize. She was the first African woman and the first environmentalist to be accorded this honour. She was also perhaps the first Nobel  laureate who unequivocally demonstrated that environmental rights are synonymous with  human rights and that women are uniquely positioned to understand this simple truth.

            The movie opens up with a young girl playing in a stream gushing under an old fig tree, “the tree of god” as Wangari’s grandmother called it. That child was encouraged by her brother to go to school where she learned the magic of information written on a slate. As a teenager she studied in a convent with nuns whose notion of service to others inspired her further. Later on, as a recipient of a Kennedy scholarship, she studied in the United States during the Civil Rights movement, which convinced her that her mission in life was to help her country. Upon her return, she revisited “the tree of god” of her childhood. It had disappeared, as had the stream and the lush forests surrounding it, all of them victims to deforestation for the benefit of cash crops like coffee and tea. Wangari notes wryly that the holy mountain, the origin of fog, rain, cool breezes and home to a biodiverse world, had been replaced as the abode of god by a church built at its foothills.

            It did not take long for Dr. Wangari Maathai, the scientist, to see the connection between deforestation and the pauperization of rural Kenya. When women no longer had firewood –nor the ingredients- to cook labour-intensive but nutritious meals, they started cooking refined foods which led to malnutrition and disease. This inspired her to create the green belt movement in 1972 to teach women how to plant trees. Instead of being given seeds – thus avoiding dependency- the women were encouraged to scrounge for seeds from the ground and to develop nurseries. They were then moderately paid for the trees that thrived but were also taught how to return to subsistence agriculture. Having the women do it was already an innovation that defied the tradition that only men could plant trees. This woman-centered approach led to the ultimate planting of 35 million trees!

            The documentary’s archival footage contains some historical images of the disdainful attitude of colonial authorities towards the African population. It also traces the links between deforestation and a plantation economy that not only destroyed the environment but the livelihood of the locals as well. Wangari Maathai wisely reminds the viewers that “culture is coded wisdom” and when the social fabric was destroyed, so was the oral culture that was necessary to transmit survival skills.

            The Mau Mau movement in the 50’s was at its height when Wangari was studying in a convent  so she was relatively shielded from it, but her mother and other relatives suffered the effects of this initial struggle for land freedom in Kenya. 100,000 Kenyans were savagely killed by  British authorities who only lost 100 persons. This colonial regime was ultimately replaced by two national regimes which continued to turn communal land into public property at the expense of the environment and the people. Corruption and the support of foreign powers kept them alive.  However, the powers that be started feeling threatened by “that crazy woman” who saved parks and organized the people.  The hunger strike she organized for the release of political prisoners  resulted in  an 11-month standoff in a church basement, forcing the government to give in. However, some of the released prisoners were later killed in extra-judicial executions.  In the process, the police beat her up into a coma. But there was no stopping what she had started. The green movement had acquired the momentum of a full-fledged civil rights struggle which toppled the dictatorial regime of Daniel Arap Moi in 2002. Wangari Maathai was then  elected Member of Parliament with 98 % of the votes and went on to become Assistant Minister for the Environment and Natural Resources.

            Wangari Maathai believes that if you know the truth and stand by it, you can change the course of events.  Or as one of the village women put it:  “ the little little grassroots people, they can change the world”.

The Soloist. Written by Steve Lopez and Susannah Grant. Directed by Joe Wright. Starring Jamie Foxx and Robert Downey Jr.

The Soloist could have been easily called The Duo since it is the true story of  how Los Angeles Times reporter Steve Lopez met and tried to “rescue” Nathaniel Ayers, a brilliant Julliard School of Music  drop-out and schizophrenic who also happens to be homeless. They develop a symbiotic relationship  which proves to be  problematic in the long run. The Soloist could also have been named The Multitudes because it is the story of 90,000 homeless persons  in the Greater Los Angeles area as incarnated by one lone man.

The story line is archetypical. A burnt-out  journalist meets a homeless man when he hears him play classical music with a two-string violin in front  of Beethoven’s statue.  The journalist is impressed and spins off a column. The column attracts media attention, more columns, a book and political largesse and interest by the public, including the gift of a cello by a retired  arthritic  music master. It also wins the journalist an award and there is  financial success for both of them at the end of the journey. But all’s not well that ends well because Ayers refuses to take medication and remains schizophrenic as well as homeless since he is loath to live in the confines of LAMP, the community home where he is allowed to play the cello.

The story is also a cautionary tale. The roots of homelessness, mental illness, poverty and alienation might be dark and deep but they are certainly intertwined. Treating homelessness as a mere blemish on the face of a city is like treating skin cancer as a cosmetic problem that can be erased  with a salve. By the way, the aerial shots of the City of Angels crisscrossed by endless freeways is worthy of a Beethoven symphony.

 There is nothing much to be said about the acting, because the actors  do not act at all. They just are.  Downey’s personal experience with drug abuse (one of the leading causes of homelessness) and Foxx’s musical training inform their work. They embody the characters they play so thoroughly that the audience forgets that  they are actors, and not protagonists in this drama. The same could be said for the 500 or so extras that the director hired from the underbelly of  Los Angeles. Being homeless and getting paid to depict their plight  lends authenticity to the film.

 The Soloist is a film to be experienced solo, in duo or in multitudes.

Fennario’s War (41 minutes) is a simple film. The Montreal playwright, David Fennario, reads a text in his Verdun apartment about World War One. He has based his drama on an interview he did with a Great War vet in the 1970s, and Fennario reads the three voices in his script: Gerry Nines, young reporter; Harry “Rosie”  Rollins, WWI infantryman; and his best friend, Rummie Robidoux.

On Feb 21, 2009, when Fennario’s War premiered in Montreal at Concordia University’s J.A. De Sève Cinema, the distinguished Quebec cinematographer, Martin Duckworth, spoke at the end of the showing. “I was with David this afternoon,” Duckworth said, ” and he spoke about Wordsworth, Nelligan, and Walt Whitman.” Then Duckworth added: “David is a poet.”

And indeed what David Fennario has been writing recently is deeply poetic, with the meditative character of Whitman’s long poems.

In Fennario’s War the viewer sees a writer at a desk – the face is intense, the eyes both sad and humourous, the fingers of this man reading are long and sensitive as they move in the air, probing and gesturing. The story that emerges speaks of horrible wartime experience seen in a way both real and hallucinatory. This voice evokes memory, its failures and its importance – and dismemberment. We see, in the words, parts of bodies moving through the air, landing wrongly, hopelessly broken: two left feet, a severed arm, features blown to bits. This tearing of the world is not the world as it should be, seen “whole” as Fennario thinks it must be, quoting a famous phrase of Hegel. And like Whitman, Fennario joins the parts together, brings the dead back to life, restores the past to the present, speaks sternly to his time and kindly to the future. Fennario succeeds in evoking what Whitman speaks of in a poem that Fennario likes to quote:

Is to-day nothing? Is the beginningless past nothing?

If the future is nothing they are just as surely nothing.

–”To Think of Time”

Fennario in this small, simple film makes the past something so that the future can be something and not nothing. For if we are to have a future, we must make something of the past, we must understand it. In Fennario’s War, Rosie Rollins says of the Battle of Vimy Ridge: “Birth of a Nation they call it. I didn’t see nothing being born.” That is the truth, speaking through the playwright.

Yes, David Fennario is something… a poet of the real.

DVDs of “Fennario’s War” are available for purchase through the site.

The Trailer:

The Pimento Report:

Persepolis is an Oscar-nominated film that premiered last year and which I regret not having seen on the big screen. Based on a graphic autobiographical novel by Marjane Satrapi, the author and her studio mate Vincent Paronnaud  created a highly original film of unusual expressivity,  pathos and humour. The voice-overs by Chiara Mastroianni as Marjane, her mother Catherine Deneuve as Marjane’s mother and Danielle Darrieux as Marjane’s grandmother, further enrich the esthetic experience. Filmed entirely in black and white, with the exception of a few flashes of colour  thrown in for contrast, Persepolis is the  Bildungsroman of  a young girl growing up  in Iran during the war between Iran and Iraq. It is also the story of how and why she became a rebel. The young Marjane rebelled against her unimaginative teachers, against the morality police,  against the hypocrisy of Teheran middle-class society, against the execution of  her beloved uncle after a long exile in the Soviet Union,  against the violence she witnessed in the streets, against the bombs that lit up the cityscape,  against a humourless society.  And she did all this under the umbrella of a pampering father, a strict but sensible mother and the instigation of a feisty  and irreverent grandmother with a strong sense of right and wrong.

When her rebelliousness threatened to get her into serious trouble,  Marjane  was sent to high school in Vienna, where she fell in with a group of nihilists and punks who were attracted to her because of her close contact with war and death. Her wake-up call came when she discovered Markus, the “love of her life”,  in bed with another girl. That and near death by hypothermia in the streets after a drug overdose pushed her to phone her parents and ask for a ticket back home.  Her loving family received her with open arms, no questions asked.  There she married so that she could enjoy the “liberty”  of a married woman,  such as sex and greater social mobility. But that, too, proved to be a disaster, so she divorced her husband and then exiled herself to France, where she currently lives and exercises her artistic talents in full liberty.

What this film is all about is freedom of choice and expression, as a woman and as an artist. Marjane does a wonderful job of expressing herself in Persepolis. She does so with a dollop of self-criticism but without a hint of bitterness. Don’t feel bitter if you missed out on the big screen version of the movie, but you’ll regret it if you don’t rush out to rent the DVD.

Blockbuster smash The Dark Knight is the epitome of such a stance. Never before has the analogy of good/evil democracy/terrorism been pushed further. Superman Returns reeked of Mel Gibson religiosity though its cartoon-ish presentation pacified its detractors by passing it off as light fodder. But this installment of Batman does its utmost to situate Gotham in our world, our neighbourhood; unlike Nicholson’s mannered portrayal now two decades ago, we see the imperfections in Heath Ledger’s makeup, in his greasy, matted hair-he is a method actor’s villain, rife with empty back-stories. The Joker, now almost overshadowing the film itself, has come to stand for the ultimate evil, one that exists for its own sake; Michael Caine as Alfred informs Christian Bale’s Batman that ‘Some men just want to watch the world burn’. Though this point is laden with superhero dramatic potential, it claims to possess something larger, some overarching commentary on the world’s woes; this is where The Dark Knight falters.

Performances aside, the Joker is on par with all other mentally ill people with violent tendencies, albeit brighter than most. He is devoid of a moral compass like a dictator may be but his mania makes his acts and motives incomprehensible, not terrifying. People like the Joker prowl the streets at night-they don’t run for office. A character like the Joker simply changes the subject, though it claims to stand in for so much else like only a super villain can. He is not Bush, nor Cheney, not even Rumsfeld. Their evil is mannered, calculated, analyzed by a thousand monkeys, that is far more petrifying. The Dark Knight assumes legitimacy by extensive metaphor and in the process nullifies its strengths as an awesome superhero film.

This intrinsic need to break through genre conventions can be seen in countless films of 2008; indeed, one could say that this year popularized the meta-genre more than ever before. The meta-genre uses all of the tried and true formal tropes of a genre while commenting on them; stealing a kid’s lunch money but sharing your sandwich with him is still thievery of the highest order. Now, instead of a straightforward superhero movie, we get The Dark Knight and Hancock.

Hancock is like anyone else: depressed, lonely, an alcoholic… but he is also from another planet with super cool super powers. Gone are the days of the graceful Christopher Reeves or even the mysterious Michael Keaton, today Will Smith is our stand-in, all loud burps and goofy grins. Hancock is hated by the public, so, OF COURSE, he needs a good PR man. This is Reality TV on an inter-galactic level, budget included. Media moguls and conglomerates worship at the altar of Reality TV because it is so cost efficient; such is not the case with Hancock’s 150 million dollar budget, or Tropic Thunder’s budget of 92 million.

Tropic Thunder is the meta-genre incarnate, a parody of parodies (watch out for Not Another Not Another Movie out next year, it’ll be right before the Rapture). It satirizes the movie business but does so at no cost, everyone and their agents get out unscathed. Ben Stiller comments on the ruthless, capitalistic side of Hollywood but concludes by celebrating it. An allegedly unrecognizable Tom Cruise closes the film looking at the viewer while dancing to Gangster Rap-if there is a message here, it certainly is hard to find. This is certainly a far cry from a film of similar themes, Paddy Chayefsky’s 1976 film Network; that film ends with an on-air assassination of a news anchor/delusional prophet, a murder approved by the powers that be to combat sagging ratings. Despite its harsh tone, it somehow rings truer than a Scientologist in a fat suit.

Yet, like Charlie Kaufman’s meta-genre cubed directorial debut Synecdoche, New York, beneath Tropic Thunder’s explosions there is an implicit statement: we’re in on the joke with you, and they almost are. But to chastise your bread and butter morally while benefiting from it financially is not social realism, or political commentary. It’s capitalism. The narrowing divide between art and life, the meta-genre, being in on the joke, call it what you will, is a trope exploited in nearly all commercial movies today.

To recap at warped speed (in no particular order): in Quantum of Solace, Bond is no longer the strong and silent type but has become a brooding Macbeth, confused about the value of a human life and his nonchalance in their taking. M. Night Shamalan’s new outing The Happening manages to forgo a villain entirely, no small feat in a thriller, but does so at the expense of any narrative coherence. Sex and the City had the potential to build upon the gender struggles it explored on the show but instead chose to have a two-hour shopping spree at Tiffany’s. Bill Maher’s Religulous forgoes any cultural criticism (in a film critiquing culture) and instead meanders across the world with an American shrug. Michael Haneke’s remake of his German film Funny Games explores the fear of the Other in the form of two Aryan suburban kids.  And Burn After Reading explores a world it has no interest in; the political sphere is of no interest to the Coen Brothers who are far happier wielding hatchets and pushing people through wood chippers. All of these films employ a tone that invites the viewer to partake, to rejoice in conjoined judgment but does so at the expense of their own narratives: for example, Haneke is so busy playing with the fourth wall that he forgets about the other three. Which brings us to Judd Apatow and his cronies.

In Apatow land, every day is Saturday on the Happy Days set, The Fonz is dead, and Richie is an obese fool who beats bright, beautiful women off of him like he’s paid by the hour. Film is supposed to have a heightened sense of drama where television is allowed to embrace the quotidian but Apatow and Seth Rogen have taken it upon themselves to rewrite the rules of 20th century media (and Aristotle’s Poetics) and turn feature filmmaking into a boys club, two-hour episode of Three’s Company. Apatow is responsible for three abominations this year: Forgetting Sarah Marshall, Pineapple Express, and Zack And Miri Make A Porno. In all of these films fat, hapless losers woo women they would not be allowed to stalk in real life. Now, although there is nothing intrinsically wrong with this trend, it is nonetheless a witless ploy to attract these would-be, couch potato lotharios. What ever happened to the Fonz? At this point, I’d settle for Richie…

The Film Noir genre has not aged well over the decades, L.A. Confidential being a prime example of the repetition as opposed to the revolution. But In Bruges is a 21st century, post-modern Film Noir: multi-cultural, ironic, and sadistic. It does not try to include everything like The Dark Knight or Tropic Thunder yet, somehow in the process, manages to leave nothing out-by refusing to take a moral stance, it grants the audience the possibility of creating their own.