Guy Maddin Turns History Into Fantasy Into History

by Memo Salazar

I don’t know, exactly, how to describe Guy Maddin’s narrative style. It’s completely unique, yet moments after I experienced it for the first time, I completely got it, as if I had found an old t-shirt buried in my closet. His imaginative and trippy, yet completely accessible and cohesive storytelling embodies, in some ways, everything I’ve aspired to with my own work, and it’s a weird experience to see someone crystallize everything that’s been brewing inside you in such a perfect, brilliant, idiosyncratic way. It’s not so much that you want to claim his techniques as your own; rather, his poetic, magical vision serves as a tangible benchmark for how good you can be in your own way; it makes you want to dig deep inside yourself and come up with something as uniquely you as Guy Maddin’s work is uniquely Guy Maddin’s.

My Winnipeg is all that, as well as love sonnet to Winnipeg, Ontario, Maddin’s birthplace and current home. Our protagonist narrates the film, letting us in on his plans to escape this Northern prison that handed him a lifetime sentence. He’s tried, and failed, to escape several times before, but perhaps, this time, he’s discovered a way out- through a series of cinematic recreations involving his family and the house they grew up in. While he carries these experiments forth, we are treated to a delicious feast of historical Winnipeg nuggets- bizarre anecdotes and factoids about this odd Canadian city that have just enough truth in them to keep you from dismissing them outright as pure conjectures of a fertile imagination. A three-level public swimming pool where budding homosexual feelings are first felt, a series of uncharted backroads, a phantom hockey team named after Wall Street’s historical crash, hair salons full of old ladies, streets full of sleepwalkers, a beloved tree in the middle of the road, nuns, labor strikes, a Nazi invasion, a homeless population living on rooftops, an ongoing tv serial about a man always ready to jump off a ledge (which brings to mind the work of another creative Canadian, David Boswell, who had a similar imaginary tv show in his comic Reid Fleming, World’s Toughest Milkman)… all of these weird, hilarious attractions in Maddin’s filmic tour of his beloved city have been permanently branded upon my brain, pardon the pun- such is the paradoxical clarity of Maddin’s seemingly obscure storytelling techniques.

But My Winnipeg is also about nostalgia and the ill-fated desire to keep things as they were, to fight the inevitable tidal wave of change. Shot in good old-fashioned black and white film, full of scratches and blurry, silent-film-era titles, Maddin displays an incredulous attitude of disgust and frustration with the direction his city has chosen to go- corporate and modern, eager to throw out all the rich qualities of the old for the shiny, empty veneer of the new. Ugly, stark color video is used only when depicting such modern architectural monstrosities, in contrast to the rest of the film’s ancient, enigmatic look. Like yet another fellow Canadian, the great comic artist Seth, Maddin is clear in his assertion that everything was better in the past, and this passion for the beauty of a mythical time that probably never actually existed except in the twilight of memory is turned into a powerful aesthetic vision, one so convincing that you find yourself loving Winnipeg along with him, sharing in his memories as if they were your own. Film is, itself, a medium of fantasy, where even the most stark, “verite” documentary is transformed into fiction by the very act of pointing a camera at something, by someone. Rather than trying to portray Winnipeg in some illusionary “objective” documentary style, Maddin accepts the fact that this is a losing, impossible task, so he drops all pretense and goes as far as he can in the other direction, unapologetically mixing fact and fiction to expose a deeper truth. I eat this shit right up; whether it’s Michael Moore’s political comedies or Oliver Stone’s historical dramas, it’s wonderful to see people bend historical fact to their creative whims (as long as the result is interesting), for it reminds us that there really is no such thing as a historical fact- every history book has been written by a (fallible, subjective) someone; even if you go to the source materials in hopes of discovering and depicting historical truth, the minute those materials get processed through your mind, they’ve been converted into the same stuff as that which Shakespeare painted. Perhaps this is why I’d much rather read fiction than non-fiction books… ultimately, they’re way more honest, admitting to the reader up front that it’s all bullshit, rather than pretending that they’re just stating the facts, ma’am.

From one point of view, My Winnipeg is simply a bunch of stock footage edited over 80 minutes of stream-of-consciousness narration. From my point of view, it’s a beautiful autobiography, an expression of Guy Maddin’s fertile mind, a whirlwind journey through a Winnipeg that doesn’t exist in time, nor space, yet is way more real than anything Ken Burns or the History channel could hope to produce. Using his Canadian Dollars, Guy Maddin has fashioned My Winnipeg into a movie that’s more magical than anything Spielberg can manage dish out, at only a fraction of the cost.

I’m Not Totally There - A Little Slap on Todd Haynes’ Creative Wrist

by Memo Salazar

Let’s begin with this: I love Todd Haynes’ films. His first major release, Poison, caught my young college-aged eye immediately, with it’s crazy stylistic shifts and interweaving stories. It was a little lacking in the substance department, but showed lots of innovative storytelling promise. Then came Safe, Haynes’ best film to date. Quiet and subtle, it tells the story of a woman who believes her environment has become hostile to her. Is she right, or is it psychosomatic? Haynes uses an unobtrusive visual style to keep you considering all points of view, and ends up with one of the best films of the decade. After that thoughtful masterpiece came the flashy Velvet Goldmine, a glamorous film about… glam. This one wasn’t too popular, but I was on board with Haynes’ tribute to Bowie and his stylish revolution, contrasting the excitement of a homosexually-liberated 70’s with the stark, cold reaction of the Reagan 80’s. Perhaps it wasn’t his deepest film, but it wasn’t supposed to be- it was a love sonnet to a time who’s spirit was thankfully preserved in the music that it spawned. Haynes managed a film where the style fit its subject matter perfectly, even without the presence of any actual Bowie music (which actually helped make the film more mythical and poignant.)

Haynes loves to pillage past filmmakers’ oeuvres for his own needs, usually in an overt way, as he did in the Douglas Sirk-drenched Far From Heaven, which also goes for using a high-concept conceit to frame his story (in this case, subverting the stereotypically sterile 1950’s Hollywood style with two overtly non-1950’s tales of racism and homosexuality.) Four films, four winners for Haynes- five if you count his Mattel-banned Superstar, which tells the Karen Carpenter story via animated Barbie Dolls. That’s Todd for you- an unapologetic formalist through and through.

I’ve always been of the belief that, if an artist proves himself to be a genuinely creative person who’s always trying to challenge himself and expand his medium, anything he produces should be given the benefit of the doubt. I don’t mean we should blindly love everything that person does- simply that, if the question of “Is this film a piece of shit, or am I just not getting it?” comes up, we should be a bit more reticent to jump to conclusions. Each of us ends up making that decision for ourselves every time we watch something new, whether we do it consciously or not. It’s unfair to write a given work off as crap simply because it doesn’t suit our own prejudices and tastes; rather, it’s our responsibility as the audience to get off our mental asses and try to figure out, if we’re lost, why an artist has done something the way they did- especially if they’ve proven their worth with previous works. Sometimes the work clicks perfectly with our sensibilities, and love at first sight ensues, but other times, it takes effort; as with any relationship we might find ourselves in, it’s not always an easy road- but when it comes to art, we rarely put in the energy that it takes to come around to someone else’s point of view. If it doesn’t cater to our sensibilities, we’re not interested- especially not in these days of instant gratification.

That’s a stupid, though common, way of thinking. It limits our ability to appreciate -and even love- something that’s good, simply because it’s not good the way we want it to be. The first time I saw Blue Velvet, I thought it was weird for the sake of being weird; the first time I heard the Pixies, I thought they were just making noise. That was a long time ago, and both David Lynch and the Pixies have since become dear, dear pals, but it took me a conscious second try to come around to their manner of speaking. Lynch’s seemingly nebulous imagery makes perfect sense if you stop thinking linearly and tune in to the emotional terrain he’s trying to depict; the Pixies sound has been ripped off enough times to make it pretty accessible these days, but there was a time, believe it or not, where it was a pretty aggressive sound to the ears of someone more into jazz and classic rock. Speaking of the Pixies, Frank Black, iconoclast that he is, has since estranged himself from his fan base by moving into less hip, but more musically challenging, directions. He’s another artist who’s unique vision has been well established, and I’m willing to go wherever he wants to take me, because he’s pretty much always on the money.

After such an eloquent introduction, you’d think I’d be defending Todd Haynes’ latest big-budget art flick, I’m Not There, with vigor- but I’m not. For once, I’m of the opinion that he’s tipped the scale between style and substance a bit too far over towards “style”, a line he’s always flirted with and usually succeeded at touting. It’s not the hype, it’s not the overload of attention to whatshername’s “groundbreaking” Dylan portrayal, and it’s not the constant inter-cutting of 60’s film styles or the Christopher Guest-quality of his documentary recreations. It’s not the overly theatrical dialogue, the emotionally-vapid performances, or the assortment of clichés dressed up as rock n’ roll lifestyle motifs. It’s that, ultimately, this movie is little more than a fancy, artsy film version of a Bob Dylan wikipedia entry. It provides no insights into the artist or the person, nor does it take any interesting creative liberties (i.e. making shit up in the name of inspiration) save for the one Richard Gere storyline that taps into the mythological nature of Dylan’s persona… but even that is peppered with easy cliches rather than anything thought-provoking. Because I know and love Haynes’ methods, I’m Not There didn’t bother me as much as it did, say, the person fidgeting with boredom in the seat next to me, but I completely understood why they were as frustrated as they were. I’m Not There spends its entire time basically telling you that Dylan just wanted to be left alone to do his thing, clearly uncomfortable with the cultural-icon status he was thrust into. The more society pushed, the more he pulled away, retreating into his many facets, stages, and personas- a fact which Haynes bases his whole film on, literally, by using different actors to portray dear ol’ Bob.

But, like, so what? We already knew all of it- if not with Dylan specifically, then certainly with celebrities in general. The world doesn’t need another movie about people floating astray in the world of celebrity as their personal lives spiral down into chaos; La Dolce Vita said it best several decades ago. Nor do we need another movie about Dylan specifically- any memorable line you might have heard in the film probably came straight out of the quintessential Dylan documentary, Don’t Look Back, which provides more insight into Dylan’s mental and musical personality than the sum total of everything that’s been made since- I’m Not There conspicuously included. If the movie doesn’t say anything new about fame in general, nor about Dylan specifically, then maybe it’s, at least, an excuse for Haynes to flex his creativity. The problem here is that he already did this with more focus and to better effect in Velvet Goldmine by having his Bowie-esque protagonist change looks and personalities to adapt to the ever-changing climate of our times. Not only was the style of the film part of the story, but Velvet Goldmine actually had something interesting to say about our culture and times. Both films are stylistically-daring reworkings of pop music history, but I’m Not There’s hubris allowed Haynes’ obsession with detail to get in the way of providing a compelling narrative. Despite its grand ambition, I’m Not There is basically a stylistic and expensive cultural scavenger hunt: I spy, with my little eye… Richard Lester! Joan Baez! Film and music geeks can feel superior catching references and appreciating the arty cleverness while everyone else falls asleep.

I’m Not There isn’t bad… it’s just hollow, like one of those chocolate rabbits you get during Easter- looks yummy, but once you bite in, there’s nothing inside. It is beautifully-made, because Todd Haynes is a master of his craft, and that was enough of a reason to keep me watching… but I’m not sure why anyone else should. Like Milos Forman’s Man On The Moon, all the best bits of I’m Not There can be found in the original source material; Jim Carey’s rubbery Andy Kaufman isn’t nearly as brilliant as Kaufman himself, and Dylan’s numerous interviews make for a much more interesting time than all the cutesy Haynes deconstructions ever will. Now that our more recent historical figures can live on forever through archival footage, merely recreating the life of someone famous isn’t quite enough- you have to one-up them. Haynes employs all his old tricks with the hope of doing so, but it’s tough to talk about an over-exposed cultural icon without falling into “VH1’s Behind The Music” territory.

To his credit, I must say, Mister Haynes is definitely not irrelevant. He’s managed to make a movie some love and others hate even as they all seem to agree on what it’s basically doing. One person I know claimed the opening shot is “the greatest in cinematic history” while another gave a convincing doctorate dissertation on it’s artistic pretensions. From this perspective, I can’t really fault Haynes at all, since he’s doing exactly what he should be doing- following his own muse and pushing people’s buttons while doing so. As long as he keeps doing that, I’m willing to go wherever he wants to go, even if I’m not always there.

The Juno and the Hype

By Memo Salazar

The internet, being an infinite depository of ideas, has a lot of bad ones. Dumb videos, boring music, blowhard opinions… though I support this new democratic playing field in principle, I’m not oblivious to the overload of utter intellectual dreck we have to suffer for such freedom. When it comes to “film criticism” or “movie reviews”, there are plenty of self-appointed “critics” who’s ego can’t help but masturbate endlessly on cyber-paper, even if no one is watching. The thrill of seeing your opinion “in print” is still alluring enough, apparently, to convince hundreds of geeks to take a break from their X-Box and start typing away…  a leftover idea from the days when “being in print” meant that someone important actually thought you had something worth saying.

One could argue that Cinemaspeak is just such a place- one of countless movie blogs that exist for purely self-serving reasons. Maybe it is- but the truth is I see value in this here little site, full of idiosyncratic thoughts put forth by individuals, rather than committees. I try to write about movies that receive little coverage, movies that truly inspire thought and provoke reaction. This is not a paid gig, so I am under no pressure to have something snappy and clever written every week; I speak up only when I have a reason to, and that usually happens when I see something worth talking about. For the most part, this involves writing about worthwhile films that escape the mainstream media’s myopic eye, but sometimes it means writing about the opposite- movies that bypass our eyes and get shoved right up our asses for no good reason. Which brings us to Juno.

It all started with The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. This is a great film- one that lets you see the world through the eyes of a fully-paralyzed man, unable to communicate, save through his left eye. Beautifully shot, it could have come off as artsy and pretentious if it hadn’t been made with such intelligence and creative vision. On paper, it reads like a shitty Hollywood feel-good movie: arrogant rich guy awakens from a coma, paralyzed and cynical, eventually finding a newfound appreciation for life via his imagination, which culminates in a best-selling autobiography. Sounds like something stupid enough to earn the title Awakenings II. Leave it to the French, however, to take a much more interesting route, employing several cinematic techniques that come off as inspired rather than gimmicky. I’m sure a lot has been written about it already, so I’ll just say it’s definitely worth your time. What isn’t worth your time is the movie we decided to sneak into right after watching this one- Juno, which begged the question “how bad can it be if it’s free?”

Let’s see. The opening scene, in which we are introduced to our spunky, wise-cracking young protagonist as she purchases her third pregnancy test that day, has got to be one of the biggest pieces of cinematic shit I have ever witnessed: horribly-written dialogue, the kind worthy of MTV Corporate Suits hoping to sound hip and current; completely unlikable, un-redeeming, uninteresting characters, speaking to each other in pure ironic drivel. One-dimentional, cold, cruel and crass… these are just a few of the many words applicable to the unfolding mess. In a mere five minutes, this movie was already worse than three other over-hyped pieces of shit I could recall: American Beauty, Reality Bites, and Napoleon Dynamite. All of those mediocre efforts, if you recall, captured the hearts and minds of American audiences, which goes to show you how a good marketing campaign can fool everybody most of the time. But none of those corporate-minded movies could seem to compete with the utter stupidity and lack of talent found in Juno, and as the film trudged through it’s first half hour, the lack of clothes on this cute little empress was just more and more obvious. Michael Cerra did his best to add a little genuine humanity to the thing, but his humble performance did little to curb the tide of shit spraying all over the audience. For the first time this century, I was seriously considering walking out.

That is, until our heroine encountered a young couple hoping to adopt her child, played by Jennifer Garner and Jason Bateman. Only then, finally, did something genuine finally start to seep through. Juno’s relationship with this young father-to-be, who’s really an overgrown college student incessantly reliving grunge music’s early-90’s glory days, rings true. Despite the film’s completely unsuccessful attempt at making her the sharpest, hippest 17-year-old you’ve ever known (basically an updated Punky Brewster- older and pregnant, but just as contrived) Juno’s character finally achieves a little depth vis-a-vis her pseudo-crush on this older dude. Though their conversations remain dumb and completely unrealistic [Juno is clearly every 30-year-old male hipster's wet dream: a 17 year old non-comformist who happens to be an expert on late 70's punk rock, who can recognize a Les Paul guitar from across the room, and who's ready to debate the Stooges vs Sonic Youth on demand- in other words, a nerdy, white, Brookyln-music-geek with boobs- about as realistic a portrayal of a teenage girl as Chasing Amy was of lesbians. Amazing, when you consider the screenwriter is a woman. Moviemaking tip #42: kids, once you graduate from film school, you no longer have to share the same pop-cultural tastes as your lead characters, and they certainly don't need to double as an on-screen blog entry about your all-time favorite album.] Pardon me- as I was saying, though their conversations remain unrealistic, the characters’ situation itself rings true… at least, truer than everything else we’ve seen so far. Amazingly, the second half of Juno begins to develop a little charm, despite the repeated faux hipster-speak and the completely derivative use of old 60’s tunes (clearly, the filmmaker has been jerking off to Wes Anderson films for the last several years)- a now-clichéd device which may have permanently ruined some of my favorite songs (thanks a lot, “director” Jason Reitman!) The Velvet Underground, the Kinks, and Belle & Sebastian all fall victim to a completely neanderthal use of pop music in movies. While Wes Anderson uses his songs as counterpoint to the action on screen, Jason Reitman, clueless director that he is, merely blasts them in our faces every time a scene ends and a new one begins… and then rapidly fades the song out, with no craft or thought, the same way every tv sitcom has done for the past 50 years. The “original” songs by Kimya Dawson fit perfectly into this uncreative stew, since they echo the sensibility of the movie: faux-sentimentality that thinks it can bullshit its way into being “raw and honest” simply because said artist can’t sing or play her way out of an open mic night. Dawson’s “bad” voice is so contrived and insincere it makes Wesley Willis and Daniel Johnston sound like Juilliard graduates; her songs’ pretensions are even more obvious since they share soundtrack space with Moe Tucker’s beautifully untrained voice on the Velvet Underground classic I’m Sticking With You. As usual, those without a clue think that by copying the surface characteristics of something great, they too can create something great. They forget that you have to have something to say first.

By the end of the film, I will concede, Juno does have a little bit to say. Not much, but it’s something, at least, which comes as a total surprise after its painful beginning. Shallow, airheaded wifey actually ends up faring better than her cool, rock n’ roll hubby- a clever reversal from how they were first introduced to us. Even Juno’s stepmom transcends her “parent trying to stay young” schtick, providing some of the film’s more insightful lines of dialogue by the end. Were this a friend’s little indie film, shot on DV for a few hundred bucks, I’d be impressed and remark that, if they got rid of all the contrived dialogue, their script showed some promise. But, alas, this is a Hollywood film, with professional actors, a real budget, and an Oscar nomination for… Best Picture? Are you fucking kidding me? The fact that this script was able to pass through the gauntlet of readers and studio heads without having someone edit out much of its obviously-poorly-written dialogue shows you just how clueless Hollywood has become. No big revelation there, I guess, but with its critical acceptance and awards, Juno has achieved newfound heights of cultural irony; this is what we call our country’s best effort in 2008. In a couple of decades, Juno will be all but forgotten; youth culture will view this emo-induced bag of fumes with the same cynical eye that Gen-X-ers viewed hippies, a new set of sensibilities leading Hollywood into further areas of contrived exploitation. Until then, however, we’ll have to endure our retarded culture’s “It Girl” of the month a little while longer: Juno, now playing at a waste of time near you. If you’ve yet to see this little nugget, consider yourself warned.

A Doc on Doc

by Memo Salazar

I’ve been a “New Yorker” going on six years now. Before then, New York was just a big city to me, and New Yorkers were these creatures who had convinced themselves that they could never live anywhere else, because they had already discovered the Greatest Place On Earth. Yawn, I thought, who wants to live with such snobs? Next thing I knew, I found myself here, among the rich and the insane, and quickly discovered that those New Yorkers were kind of right- this is a city that never stops giving. There’s always something new to discover, something waiting for you to learn, and someone fascinating for you to bump into. I’ve lived in bigger cities, but, despite its overpriced real estate, its annoyingly rich patrons and its occasional pretensions, New York gets under your skin in a good way.

H.L. “Doc” Humes was a New Yorker, too. Other than being remotely familiar with the name, I had no idea who this guy was, or why I should care to watch a full-length documentary on the man. But I did, anyway; Doc, lovingly made by Humes’ daughter, Immy, is both a riveting tale of one of the most fascinating people I’ve ever heard of, and a tribute to a father by a daughter who clearly loved him, despite the difficult and challenging life he crafted for himself. As with My Architect and Tell Them Who You Are, this “first-person” portrait of an influential creative person from the point of view of the subject’s offspring provides an intimacy (and access to some wonderful interviews) no one else could achieve. Doc is different than those other films in that it’s really not about the parent/subject - child/filmmaker relationship, but rather a simple, chronological biography of Humes. Nothing flashy, nothing clever- which is just perfect, as there is so much substance to the story, a straightforward approach is just what the doc… er… doctor ordered. Immy Humes wisely lets her father’s peers, and not the editing room, do the talking.

And what a list of peers! Interviewed are such fascinating figures as Norman Mailer, George Plimpton, Tim Leary, and Paul Auster, not to mention Hume’s own family and illegitimate offspring- all in all, a really diverse group of human beings. And that’s what the film is really about- one of the most dynamic human beings to emerge out of our 20th Century culture, a man so full of energy and creativity that his mind had clearly left his psychological and emotional selves far behind. Humes wrote 2 acclaimed novels, shot an independent film, hung out with great artists like Ornette Coleman and Richard Wright, founded one of the most influential literary journals (The Paris Review), designed and built low-cost paper houses as aid to third-world countries, experimented with LSD way before it was considered “cool”, was an avid supporter of the legalization of cannabis, communicated with clouds, hung out on college campuses dispensing words of wisdom as well as thousands of dollars in cash to whomever happened to come by… I mean, this guy clearly had a restless soul, one that hungered for whatever challenge life could throw at it. As is often the case, one’s devotion to such a lifestyle doesn’t jive well with structure, whether the societal structure of jobs and the law (being arrested for protesting a citywide ban on folk music is one of his several inspiring arrests) or the interpersonal structure of a family. Doc clearly loved his children, but his mental state was simply not the ideal one to be in while fulfilling the role of father. Even so, Doc is a dignified portrait which never dips into the easy button-pushing of scandal and daytime-TV faire; the film doesn’t shy away from detailing his darkest moments, but it doesn’t linger or milk the story for dramatic effect. Yes, he was paranoid, but yes, he had every reason to be- Doc does a wonderful job of bringing the viewer around to see the world through Doc’s eyes, so that, by the end, you really feel like you, too spent time with the guy, shooting the shit every day in Harvard Square for hours. I actually do have vague memories of seeing a man very much like him hanging around that area in the late 80’s while I hunted used records… though, perhaps, it’s just wishful thinking. Even in death, Doc’s magnetic personality is in full effect.

Doc is, ultimately, a story of redemption- for Doc, after a lifetime of stubborn self-fulfilment, spends his last few years with the people he loves the most, developing relationships that had been put on pause decades earlier. The fact that his own daughter- someone who could have resented him the most for his negligent role as a father during her childhood- had, at this stage in his life, the presence of mind to be lovingly celebrating his final few years of life by way of a video camera is evidence of Doc’s powerful and positive influence on the people around him. Though his body was on its way out, his mind was as sharp as ever, providing one of Doc’s best lines in the film, when he insightfully proclaimed that you never really stop loving people- after all the anger and animosity recedes, the love is still there, waiting for you to pick up where you’d left off. It’s as much a statement about himself as it is about the amazing collection of people Doc had gathered across the decades and continents of his journey, all of whom speak of the man with a combination of admiration and compassion- a testament to Doc’s mind as well as his heart.

I have no idea where or when you’ll be able to see Doc, but the film’s website might be of service in that regard. Check it out, as it’s definitely worth your time.

4 Months, 3 Weeks, 2 Days, 1 Review

by Memo Salazar

…and with a clever title like that, we’re off to a great film review. Last year’s Palme d’Or winner, Christian Mungiu’s 4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days is truly an amazing film. Shot in a simple, elegant neorealist style, 4 Months is a story about a 1987 Romania- communist, harsh, bleak. With beautifully long takes and honest, straightforward dialogue, 4 Months gives us a flavor of daily life for Gabita and Otilia (a pair of female college students) so convincing that by the time we slip into the film’s main focus (illegal abortions during the communist era) we feel quite familiar with the rhythm of their life, so foreign to Americans, where scoring a pack of Kent cigarettes is both difficult and essential in maintaining some semblance of humanity in this otherwise grey world. The film’s subtlety lies in the background details; in their dorm, the girls’ cheap, plastic dining tablecloth is so old, the top of it has faded to pure whiteness- only the sides reveal the pattern it once had. It’s the kind of thing you only notice if you’re paying attention, because the film never once cuts away to close-ups of anything; it doesn’t tell you where to look, or what to think- it leaves that kind of thing up to you. Characters look inside briefcases and bathrooms, but their facial expression provides our only hint as to what they may have seen.

The historical background, which I was not privy to at the time of the screening, is that Romania banned all abortions in 1966, resulting in a vast population increase just a few years later. Those that sought an abortion anyway had to do so illegally, to the point that, two decades later, more than 500,000 women had died from the dangerous, illegal procedure. In this context, 4 Months is clearly a political film, showing the stark reality of what women had to go through due to this political mandate. But the film is also a statement on morality, and how it goes by the wayside when people are forced to deal with the practical realities of getting by in such a harsh, uncompassionate world. 4 Months does not judge, but it certainly does not shy away from presenting the consequences of both ill-conceived law and personal choices, providing a lot of food for thought without any easy answers. The characters are neither praised nor scorned; they are simply acting out within a given paradigm. We sympathize with the protagonists without ever losing sight of their own shortcomings. Gabita, especially, displays a naive, irresponsible nature which is clearly portrayed as such; any empathy we might feel for her situation is matched by our frustration and anger at her unnecessarily bonehead decisions, who’s consequences extended far beyond her own life’s suffering. Some reviewers, like The New York Press‘ Armond White, trashed this film for taking abortion lightly and presenting the girls as some kind of feminist heroes. Clearly, he was so wrapped up in his own issues with abortion (and with conjuring up as many pop-culture references as he could muster for his precious review) that he forgot to pay attention to the actual film, which does nothing of the sort. 4 Months is honest and fair to its subject and theme.

Ultimately, though, 4 Months is much more than a political statement. It is a snapshot of human life, albeit an unjoyful one, proving how visual a simple, character-driven, dialogue-heavy movie can be. I found myself wishing I understood Romanian in order to avoid reading the subtitles during an extremely long, single-shot scene at a birthday dinner party. Watching Otilia’s worried face as she sits, surrounded by an older generation of gabbing adults oblivious to her current ordeal is riveting. The contrast between their superficial, well-meaning banter and the harsh experience reflected in Otilia’s face is about as visual a scene as anything Hollywood could ever churn out, with only a fraction of the typical Hollywood budget. 4 Months’ minimalist, efficient elegance is a genuine cinematic treat, even if it does come encased in one of the most depressing subjects a film could hope to deal with. Sorry, Armond, this one did deserve Cannes’ top prize.

IC U2 3D B4 U

by Memo Salazar

It’s amazing how much there is to say about a U2 performance filmed in three dimensions. Concert films are usually painfully boring; even if you like the music, watching a video of a crowd of people and their favorite band just isn’t that interesting. The thing about live music is that it’s live; take that away and it’s usually a really long, dull music video. There are exceptions, of course. Jonathan Demme, who’s narrative films usually don’t do much for me, has directed three brilliant concert performances that stand the test of time. The Talking Heads’ Stop Making Sense is, of course, his most famous, having set a new standard of creativity in a rock band’s filmed performance. I actually like Neil Young’s Heart of Gold more; it’s not that I prefer Young over the Talking Heads (far from it), it’s just that this amazingly intimate film takes you into the performer’s world like no other concert film I’ve ever seen. Then there’s Spalding Gray’s Swimming to Cambodia, which takes the art of the staged monologue to new heights. Who knew a neurotic New Englander could be so riveting? I mention Demme because he’s pretty much the only guy that seems to get it; just filming an exciting event doesn’t make for an exciting film. You have to have a vision to what you’re doing, no differently than with any other work of art.

Which brings us to U2 3D, a movie which is part rock concert, part technological experiment. What was once a popular ballyhoo gimmick several decades ago has recently come around for a second round of audience rousing; “3D” usually means that if you can’t make a good movie, maybe you can, at least, make it jump off the screen. For U2 3D, we were told, several new techniques were employed that pushes the 3D concept to the next level: moving cameras (i.e. tracking shots) can finally be employed in the 3D realm, as well as lots of fancy layering (you know, compositing two or three shots on top of each other, like those cheesy “Reflection” school photos our parents made us take.) I hadn’t seen a 3D movie since Disney and Michael Jackson teamed up for Captain Eo, and I’m not one to be impressed by a lot of technical wizardry and gimmickry. It was with this skeptical attitude, you understand, that I sat down to watch Bono shove his face in my personal space.

First, a word about Bono and his boys. U2 was an obvious choice as a showcase for this new 3D technology; they are about as safe an act as there is, appealing to old and young, offending no one. This, in itself, speaks a lot about a once “edgy” band (edgy, at least, lyrically, though never musically) who used to have an axe to grind with the political leaders of our world. Though they’ve, for the most part, stuck to their overall message, it’s obvious that the world is paying more attention to their inoffensive, bland pop hooks than they are to any supposed words of wisdom coming out of Bono’s mouth. U2 has become an institution, trying anything to remain relevant in an age of distraction, embracing both techno music and ipods with open arms. This film, then, is already less a work of art than a piece of mass entertainment, not much different than the glitzy Broadway show you might find yourself at during your next Manhattan visit. In that sense, U2 did their job perfectly, hitting all their cues, playing their solos at the appropriate times, shifting from crowd-rearing anthems to quiet ballads as needed. If nothing else, U2 has always maintained a high level of craft, and U2 3D is no exception- the upshot being that the 85-minute long movie is never boring.

The 3D “gimmick”, too, turned out to be not so gimmicky. You can pay $100 to see a big-shot rock band play in a giant stadium where, unless you’re one of the lucky few up front, you must resign yourself to watching your heroes on giant tv screens floating above the stage- which probably explains why my last arena rock event was seeing Rush in high school many, many years ago (as embarrassing a fact as that might be.) From this point of view, the 3D concert film is an exciting new alternative; the clarity of the digital image combined with the depth of three dimensions creates a vivid and visceral experience. Of course, “visceral experience” is a relative thing that loses its value quickly; let’s not forget the famous Lumiére Brothers’ “Arrival of a Train” way back in 1895, which had audiences running out of the theater as they watched some film of a train arriving at a station (it wasn’t even coming straight at the camera!) I’m sure it won’t be long before this amazingly new, super-clear 3D technology starts to look old and dated; at the same time, this skeptical viewer found himself more impressed than he expected to be by a fancy-schmancy U2 concert. For a band that’s been around as long as it has, U2’s doing pretty well. They’re certainly faring better than other bands at their relative age (The Stones and The Who being two that come to mind.) There were times when those Irish guys actually rocked out!

Which isn’t to say it couldn’t have been better. For starters, while the film was very professionally made, it was also incredibly generic. Take away the 3D twist, and it was your usual assortment of wide shots and close ups; cue the sweeping crane shot that pans above the crowd and ends up on Bono’s face, blah blah blah. Co-directors Catherine Owens and Mark Pellington didn’t really have much of a vision in putting this together, ensuring the eventual fate of this concert film to be nothing more than a footnote in the technical advancement of the moving image. There were a few creative elements the 3D aspect added to the mix, but none that were used to any great effect. Wide establishing shots of the stadium and extreme close-ups of people were both incredibly impressive; the former gave you a sense of depth of the location which is impossible to convey with two dimensions, and the latter gave you an intimacy with the performer that was pretty jaw-dropping. Yes, you could see every wrinkle on Bono’s forehead, but more excitingly, for the first time ever, you could really observe the musicians’ playing of their instruments. Watching Adam Clayton and The Edge plunk away was a total treat, as I could see exactly what chords they were playing or simply appreciate their fingering techniques, something that has always frustrated me when watching concert films in a mere two dimensions- you never quite get a sense of what they do. Of course, the directors’ insecure need to stay on a shot for no longer than three seconds killed this wonderful new opportunity, which is why I’d like to see this technology in the hands of someone with more of a creative clue than these guys. Here and there, they did something interesting, like adding a little touch of animation to Bono’s hand gestures or cutting together an occasionally nice sequence of layered shots, but most of the creativity seems to have come out of the editing room, not the actual filming. Still, the whole thing was very well done and enjoyable, which is about all you can expect from a film that is clearly more of a technical calling card than an artistic statement. I’m sure National Geographic was not looking for awards in the “best experimental film” category.

If you can’t stand U2’s easy-to-digest music, you might hate the film. Otherwise, I can’t see why one would not enjoy such a fun treat. I happened to have watched the film with a very skeptical U2 fan who was expecting very little and found himself enjoying the film a lot more than his last live U2 show… which probably says more about this post-millenial U2 than it does about the film itself. The band’s performance started off somewhat lacklusterly, but as the band settled into their groove and pulled out their stronger (albeit predictable) older material, they definitely heated up, making the 3D feel less like a gimmick and more like an enhancement to their stage show. The set list was pretty much what you would expect it to be, with the exception of Miss Sarajevo, formerly a duet with Pavarotti, now sung solely by Bono, who proved he’s got some pretty powerful pipes by handling Pavarotti’s vocal with power and panache. No other risks were taken, but the strong material did what it needed to do.

Though I’m sure this new 3D technology will be used mostly to make shitty special effect films even shittier, there’s always a hope that someone with genuinely creative ideas will get their hands on this new toy and use it to make something new and unique. I know how I would have shot this concert, but National Geographic didn’t come to me for advice, so we can only hope that U2 3D is the first step towards something truly wonderful. In the meantime, it’s not a bad first try.

I”m giving myself bonus points for not using a single U2 song title as a pun throughout this article. Thank you.

Frank Darabont & Stephen King surprise us in a good way

by Memo Salazar

It’s been a pretty busy few months over here for us Cinemaspeak people, which has resulted, for me, at least, in the viewing of very few movies. The combination of my local theater’s “Super Tuesday” $4 movie ticket promotion and a recommendation from a friend, however, led me to watch an unlikely movie- The Mist, directed by Frank Darabont, a film that has been received with very lukewarm interest, both commercially and critically.

There wasn’t much interest from me, either- I don’t really care for Stephen King’s mainstream sensibilities, always pushing obvious buttons for silly effect; the only horror movies I can think of liking are usually tongue-in-cheek, such as Peter Jackson’s Dead Alive. Actual attempts at scaring me pretty much always fail, so I rarely bother trying to find one that does. For the most part, the Horror genre holds little interest to this guy… but The Mist was quite different in all these respects, and I found myself captivated and engaged like I haven’t been since… who knows. I don’t watch many horror movies.

The best thing about The Mist is the storytelling. Darabont keeps it simple and sincere, with an honest, hand-held style that stays far away from the gimmicky “guerilla hand-held” look found all over television, while maintaining the tension that you can’t get from static camera shots. Other than the opening nod to horror movies by way of a few famous movie posters (the main character paints movie posters for a living), there is nothing self-conscious about the film. It gives you some very simple, genuine characters from a small New England town (what else? It’s Stephen King, after all) who find themselves fending for their lives while trapped in a supermarket surrounded by fog and monsters. It’s a ridiculously clichéd horror movie premise, I know, but Darabont paces it so well, that, for the first time since who-knows-when, I was actually buying it, genuinely concerned for how the whole thing was going to be played out. Without giving any plot elements away, I can simply attest to the overall intelligence of the storytelling, right up to the end, where Darabont gives us a dramatic plot twist that is fitting and genuinely surprising. Compare that to the gimmicky, contrived and confusing plot twists of almost every thriller made today, and you’ll hopefully start to appreciate how refreshing The Mist is.

Which is not to say the film is perfect; every so often there are scenes where the dialogue or situation comes off a little too forced, as when the characters all tell us that when people are afraid, you can manipulate them to do almost anything. True enough, but the entire film is showing us that already- no need to hammer the point with some supplemental cliff notes. Here and there, characters do things that are more in keeping with “movie logic” rather than actual logic, but the film never strays too far off the path before it becomes believable again. There is also a classic Stephen-King-religious-nutcase right out of any 1970’s horror film, preaching fire and brimstone to those who will listen. This would be fine if this were a clever, ironic, self-conscious-reference type of film, but here, where the drama is actually played straight and sincerely, she’s just way too silly to buy into. I also wonder if it was the budget or Darabont’s lack of expertise that led them to give us some incredibly cheesy digital monsters, the film’s most obvious weak point. The scenes play out perfectly, until you actually see the creatures. They’re so obviously digital, they already seem dated, as if the film was made 10 years ago and is only being released now- not good when you’re trying for a legitimate horror film. Because everything else is well-crafted, those scenes still remain suspenseful, but it does pull you out of the moment a bit.

None of the little flaws, however, stop The Mist from becoming a solid piece of entertainment, and while the message is far from insightful or eye-opening, it is an intelligent piece of filmmaking that comes from the heart, rather than the wallet. It’s an old-fashioned horror film that stands out among the glut of overdone, over-sensitized gore-fests simply because it is simple. It deserves better than the attention it has received, so get off your ass and go check it out while you can. I think that’s all I have to say about that.

So Simple, So Different - the Magic of Ten Canoes

by Memo Salazar

I hate trailers. Like the stuff on the back cover of a novel, they’re usually little more than poorly-crafted commercials that give away way too much, doing a disservice to all the crafting done by the writer. Why people love clicking their way to that apple quicktime movie trailer page, just so they can have story after story ruined before them is beyond me. What’s the point of watching a mystery thriller, for example, when most of the “twists” were revealed to you in 2 minutes? And these trailers- oy! Like today’s movie posters, they are about as generic as possible, all featuring the same voice, narrative structure and music running underneath (Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana, in case you were wondering.) I try to avoid these little gremlins as much as possible, purposely arriving late to movies (not easy to do in New York) or by hitting fast-forward on the dvd player a hundred times, but sometimes, there’s no way around it- you just have to buckle down and watch. As far as I can remember, there’s only been 3 trailers that have caught my fancy: The Minus Man, who’s incredibly clever trailer was worthy of an incredibly clever film; Buffalo ‘66, which I still haven’t seen but gave us a trailer teetering between pretentious and ballsy by mixing a bunch of frozen movie images to Yes’ Heart of the Sunrise… and the trailer for Ten Canoes, which was so, so different from anything I’ve seen in its approach and subject matter that I just HAD to watch the movie.

Well, I just did, and I’m still not sure how to convey what an amazing film this is. On one level, it is a story within a story, the first story taking place many generations ago. A younger brother (Dayindi) covets one of his older brother (Minygululu)’s wives. Had this taken place in Biblical times, there’d probably be a lot of revenge and killing and violent jealousy, but that is not the way of the Yolngu people from the Arnhem Land we know as Northern Australia. Their way is much simpler- they teach each other lessons via stories, some of which might take a long, long time to tell before the meaning is revealed. And so Minygululu begins to tell Dayindi a story, one from a long, long time ago. It is a long story, but they’ve got a lot of time to kill while they build their ten canoes and go goose egg hunting, which is pretty much what life consists of for these men. In case you’re wondering, no, the plot doesn’t have much in common with Spider-Man 3. Instead of two ridiculous villains, we’re treated to two beautiful stories- the one told by Minygululu and the one of Minygululu and his people. To help us Westerners get into this meandering, unhurried approach, the film uses two simple, but perfectly-executed devices. First, it intercuts between black-and-white and color images, instantly letting us know which “story” we’re currently on. Second, it’s narrated by David Gulpilil, Hollywood’s favorite Aboriginal actor (from Walkabout to Crocodile Dundee, he’s our go-to guy!) Gulpilil casually narrates the film, thereby cutting down on the number of subtitles we have to read, explaining the Yolngu ways to us moderns, and periodically giving us a progress report on the narrative (”don’t worry- the story is almost finished now,” he reassures us.) His warm, soothing voice tears down all the A.D.D.-derived expectations lurking in our sophisticated minds, bringing us back to the essence of story and myth. It’s so brilliantly executed, I doubt few viewers will really appreciate what an amazing feat this film pulls: it manages to make a story about some guys going goose egg hunting accessible to Americans. Goose eggs, folks. Goose eggs, honey, and canoes.

But wait- there’s more! As great as this film is, the story behind the film is just as fascinating. Get this: director Rolf de Heer had worked with David Gulpilil on his previous film, The Tracker. At some point, Gulpilil invites the guy over for dinner with his family, showing off his ancestral surroundings. De Heer digs what he sees, and they begin chatting about a film based on Gulpilil’s people. A few years later, de Heer rekindles this idea, brainstorming on what, exactly, such a movie would be about. David Gulpilil comes to him one morning and says “yo, Rolf, we need ten canoes.” De Heer gives him a confused look, so Gulpilil whips out this amazing photograph of ten men in canoes on a swamp, taken some 70 years ago by an anthropologist named Donald Thompson. De Heer gets it right away. This is the movie.

Donald Thompson spent several months with the Yolngu during the 1930’s, studying and photographing every aspect of their life. This was a time when the modern world hadn’t shoved its fist up the ass of every culture that’s out there, which means the Yolngu were still living the same way they had been living for centuries. Thompson’s photographs are an amazingly cinematic portrait of a unique group of people who’s lifestyle no longer exists, but will forever be captured in these pictures… and now, as well, in this film. You see, the stars of Ten Canoes are the direct descendants of the people in the photographs (this is how the film was cast.) These days, they don’t build canoes- they drive off-road trucks, watch TV, and hunt with guns instead of spears, so to get this film done right, everyone had to dig deep and get in touch with a cultural past that only the eldest of the Yolngu could remember. Using the Thompson photos as a starting point, the men built the ten canoes in the movie just like their ancestors had, stripping the bark from trees and… well, you’ll see the whole process when you watch the movie. The women, in turn, built the huts and body decorations just as their ancestors had. The film process served as a catalyst for the revival of a culture that had almost vanished, a revival that continues on today. Thanks to Ten Canoes, there are now a bunch of educational and cultural projects revolving around the Yolngu and their ways- but, more importantly, the Yolngu themselves have been forever changed by a film that shows the world the beauty of their unique lives, traditions and culture. Ten Canoes is an acknowledgment of their contribution to the Human Story; concrete evidence of their identity that they can hold up to future generations as a reminder of a wonderful way of life that’s uniquely theirs. How often does a simple movie accomplish all that?

For the rest of us reading these words on a computer somewhere, Ten Canoes lets us disconnect from the matrix for a couple of hours and reconnect with a common truth that we all know, deep inside, still lurks. For all our ipods and novelty ring tones, we’re definitely not any happier (and way more neurotic) than the Yolngu ever were, a fact we should keep in mind as we deplete the world’s resources in search of more toys that keep us from getting bored. In this light, a little goose egg hunting starts to make a shitload of sense.

Turning the Tidelands - why Terry Gilliam’s most despised film is actually one of his best

by Memo Salazar

I know my title is a stupid pun, but it’s also very true. Perhaps the best film I saw in 2006 was Terry Gilliam’s Tideland. I walked out of that theater thankful that Mr. G had, once again, reinvented himself and the world around him. Imagine my surprise, then, when every review that emerged from the sad pit of insecurities collectively known as “movie critics” gave Gilliam big zeroes for his effort. I’ve never heard such vitrol from such “professionals”:

“An endless, pointless drone with characters like bacteria and dialogue like an untuned radio.”

“Horrendous and terrible.”

“It’s just a bad movie.”

“You watch the film feeling abused and exploited.”

“As unwatchable as a train wreck.”

“Ugly, disturbing, and misguided mess.”

“Tideland is borderline unwatchable.”

“Pointless and an excruciating bore.”

Entertainment Weekly gave it a flat-out “F”, and Gene Siskel’s watered-down replacement, Richard Roeper, actually chimed in with : “I came very close to walking out of the screening room. And I never do that.”

In fact, most of the reviews shared the same basic phrases and reactions, almost as if they had all been copying each other during a math test. These guys aren’t just disappointed by Gilliam’s effort, they are pissed; they feel cheated and abused. They’re convinced Gilliam has gone bitterly postal, and that this film is his way of getting the industry back for 30 years of abuse towards his career. How can this be the same film that not only I, but almost every person I’ve met who has seen it, really enjoyed? How can Tideland be “most depressing” to a bunch of critics, yet fascinating and inspiring to all seventeen of us who actually saw the film?

Gilliam himself anticipated the backlash. He introduces the film on camera, explaining what we are about to see. I quote from memory: “Some of you will love this film. Some of you will hate it. Others won’t know what to think- and that’s okay, as long as you are thinking.” He then goes on to advise that, in order to appreciate the film, one has to get in touch with one’s inner child, and see things, in this case, through the eyes of a little girl. It’s not just a cute introduction- it is a literal truth. If you can’t remember what it’s like to be under ten years of age, if you can’t appreciate what kids have that most adults have long forgotten, and if you can’t appreciate the creative survival power of the human mind, then you will definitely not understand (and will probably hate) this film. Apparently, this includes every major American film critic.

Is that such a surprise? I’ve met many prominent film critics, and, by and large, they all fall into the same stereotype- insecure, frustrated writers who haven’t an original thought rattling in their mind; a group of people with such little confidence, that everything they write down must first be rationalized and justified by precedents, never daring to do something original and insightful, lest they make a mistake for the world to note- these are our critics. Let’s hear it for a bunch of mental weaklings who’s only source of ego-boosting is the belief that there are people out there who give a shit about what they have to say! Sadly, they’re partially right- there are people out there who actually give a shit about what they have to say.

I generalize, of course. I’m being unfairly harsh, but only because critics by and large have done more harm than good in this world. Hey, I’m quite aware of the apparent irony in my words, since I, myself, am playing the role of critic as well- but it’s not the concept of criticism I’m attacking, it’s the execution. Criticism should be an attempt to analyze a work objectively, not merely a projection of one’s clearly subjective tastes onto someone else’s work. It’s like saying you don’t like a movie because there’s not enough olive green in it- hey, olive green can be your thing, but it’s a completely irrational, unhelpful bit of criticism to the general public. This is the mistake most critics make- they’re so stuck in their “critic” shtick they forget to just shut the fuck up and understand where the artist is coming from. There is the occasional review (or reviewer) out there that is willing to accept a film on its owns terms, critiquing it for what it’s actually doing rather than what the critic wants it to do… but this kind of critic isn’t common, and Tideland is probably the best case in point.

Tideland is rich and challenging, but its heart is incredibly simple. Thematically, it shares much with the more popular Pan’s Labyrinth, though structurally, they are quite different beasts. When life shits on you as a child, you find a way to get by. In Pan’s Labyrinth, our young heroine survives by transplanting herself into the fairy tales she loves to read. It’s a surprisingly wonderful film that eschews cliche while it blends historical fiction with classic fantasy. Tideland, however, reaches this theme via a much more alternate path. Yes, it too is about a little girl who escapes into her fantasy world in order to survive life’s ordeal, but this fantasy world is a truly unique vision, rather than the familiar, comforting fantasy world of princesses and fauns. Gilliam serves us a darker, more bizarre and unpredictable meal, but that’s exactly what makes it such a masterpiece. Every scene takes you to places you’ve never imagined; not once can you guess the pattern or predict the resolution. It all makes sense, but within a logic you’ve never dealt with. Gilliam never cheats us with formulaic solutions and “twists”, which seems to be a problem in the eyes of our critical pals. We’re never given anything to grab onto, any type of cinematic landmark that brings the film back into the realm of “I’ve been here before; I know how this thing works.” It is exactly like poking around in a pitch-black cave and having to figure its layout using only your fingers. Probably not the kind of “fun” people expect when they watch a movie, but definitely an experience worth savoring over and over.

And Jeliza-Rose, our protagonist… what a girl! Played by Jodelle Ferland, this is easily the greatest performance by a non-adult actor I have ever seen. It is amazingly subtle, yet strong enough to literally carry an entire film by itself. Gilliam throws her into a sparse Canadian landscape, where nothing much is happening, and dumps the responsibility of keeping the audience’s attention on her lap. She interacts with other characters at times, sure, but most of the film involves her and her imagination- nothing else. That’s a lot to ask for from anyone, let alone a “mere child”, but Ferland proves that kids can be much stronger than adults… which is fitting, since that’s one of the points of the film.

Like Terry says, if you can’t put yourself in Jeliza-Rose’s shoes, if you can’t grasp the beauty of her childish resilience, and if you can’t understand that this film is not showing the world as a horrible place, but rather, why life is so beautiful and amazing, then you just don’t get it. You don’t just misunderstand this film, you’re misunderstanding what living’s all about. I know them’s fightin’ words, but that’s exactly what this culture needs- something worthwhile to fight for. In this dormant, bland culture of ours, it’s rare that you will watch a movie that shakes up your comfortable little version of reality. Most things fit nicely into the compartments we’ve been taught to distinguish, giving us a sense of control over our chaotic lives. Along comes Gilliam, throwing us a giant curveball in a constantly-shifting shape we can’t begin to describe, and we’re expected to catch it? Who does he think he is?

Please, watch one of the most ignored, but greatest, films of our time. Watch it twice before you send it back, because once is probably just not enough to really appreciate what it’s all about. It’s simply that kind of film.

Dissecting the Troublemakers, Robert & Quentin

By Memo Salazar 

I keep waiting for them to shoot their wad.

Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino are two filmmakers that, in a way, represent their generation the best- a generation that refuses to mature. Born without ever tasting the hardships of the depression or the extended pain of a world war, we have grown up soft and pampered, wanting all the benefits of adulthood without giving up any of the securities we had as kids. If film is our culture’s clearest voice, the mandate is clear: long, thoughtful and introspective movies are O-U-T, our version of “art films” being shallow, toothless and pseudo-grandiose statements like American Beauty. Give us movies clever enough not to insult our intelligence but shallow enough to keep us distracted from facing our issues… Pulp Fiction being the quintessential movie in this regard.

Don’t get me wrong- I don’t hate fun films per se and I really do like both Robert and Quentin. They’re talented, each in their own way, and if kitschy b-movies are all they can aspire to, well, at least they make them with passion. Their limitations are more indicative of our sorry state as a culture than of themselves as filmmakers, and I usually find myself enjoying their latest offerings, half expecting to see them finally blow it by making such a self-indulgent mess, even their own cleverness can’t save them.

They’ve both come pretty close- Robert, the less pretentious of the two, has never claimed he was an artiste and usually succeeds in making extremely ingenious, creatively-executed and meticulously-crafted junk food- his one distinct failure being Once Upon a Time in Mexico, a Lucas-like mess of self-indulgence full of stupidly-written characters and convoluted storylines all intersecting into a long, pointless nothing. Even then, many of the action scenes are really, really great, chopped up and spit out with an energy hollywood still can’t quite figure out. Quentin, on the other hand, is smarter, but with a lot more hubris; when source material is good, as in Jackie Brown (his best film to date) his dialogue shines and his creative risks find their mark (perfect laconic pacing peppered with genuine dialogue, in that case.) When he has absolutely nothing to say, well, you get things like the first half of From Dusk Till Dawn or the latter part of Kill Bill Vol. 2 or his contribution to Four Rooms, which wasn’t “bad” but was far from good. Four Rooms is interesting in that, out of the four indie darlings of the time, only Robert’s entry was really worthwhile- really, really worthwhile, as it turned out. It almost made the other 3 shorts worth trudging through. Okay, maybe not, but it’s still a really wonderful short film.

When these two kids team up, it’s usually to the detriment of their careers. Four Rooms didn’t do Robert any favors, and From Dusk Till Dawn wanted to be really fun but got really monotonous as Clooney & Co. kept killing and killing and killing and killing in not-so-clever ways. The boys do much better on their own; Robert’s last film, Sin City, was surprisingly successful in transplanting overly-stylized Frank Miller dialogue and visuals onto the screen. It shouldn’t have worked, but it did… really well. Meanwhile, Quentin’s Kill Bill opus seemed to exhaust everything he could possibly want to do in the “let’s revisit all the shit I loved growing up” genre. It was the ultimate fanboy masturbation fantasy, one which only ran out of steam towards the end, when Quentin tried to get cute and serious. Apparently, Kill Bill was successful enough to convince uncle Harvey to hand the boys a bunch of money for another round of b-movie fun, the result being Grindhouse, a double-feature where each kid contributes a self-contained, b-movie feature.

Robert’s entry, Planet Doom, starts us off with 90 minutes of pure ingenuity. I really don’t know how he does it, but Mr. Roberto still manages to come up with ingenious ways of killing, maiming, and blowing things up. Dialogue has never been his forte, so he’s wise enough to keep it to a minimum, letting his hyperactive imagination and amazing editing skills take you for a ride reminiscent of early Peter Jackson and Sam Raimi, back when they both were making brilliant, low-budget schlock. There’s not much to say about this film, other than it’s exactly what it claims to be, a faux-70’s-styled zombie-fest done right, which rarely happens. My only (admittedly petty) complaint is that it was clearly shot digitally, with a shitty film grain filter thrown on top to make it look “old”. After all the hype about Grindhouse being such an homage to old, scratchy films, you’d think he’d at least shoot it on, you know, film. These kids and their damn computers!

Then comes Quentin’s Death Proof. The idea is great- so great, I’m not going to spoil it- but before you get to this greatness, you have to endure what feels like hours of the worst Quentinesque dialogue you’ve ever- I mean ever- heard; the kind that film students were churning out all through the 90’s after watching Pulp Fiction 50 times in one week. It’s Quentin sounding like someone trying to sound like what they think Quentin is supposed to sound like… snappy, back-and-forth chattering about absolutely nothing which, in this case, literally gave me a headache. Keep in mind, the audience has just watched a full-length zombie feature, and now they have to sit through several scenes of boring, pretentious, hipster wannabe dialogue? And just when the action starts to kick in, Quentin forces us to another couple of rounds of more shitty, pointless, annoying dialogue before the film really takes off. When it does, it’s a riveting ride with an ass-kicking ending, but the shit one must endure to get there might convince several people to just stop watching.

Grindhouse tries to give you a flavor of what it was like to grow up on old, shitty b-movies, and it sort of succeeds in that regard. Robert does his job well, and Quentin kind-of-gets there by the end, but it takes him a while. You can see what he was aiming for- start off slow so that the twist and punch really hit hard… and it would have worked if Quentin’s setup wasn’t so bad bad bad. A whole ‘lotta hot girls jabbering about nothing for what seems like hours just doesn’t cut it. The film’s gimmick of having “missing reels” to skip over part of the story only reinforces the pain, since someone clearly lost the wrong section of Quentin’s film. Has the big Tarantino become so powerful that no one dares tell him how utterly boring and pointless his dialogue had become? Apparently so- if his two inept acting cameos (one in each film) are any indication, no one- not even Robert- says “no” to QT. And judging by the extra 40 pounds he’s put on, neither does his lunch. (Ba-dum-ching! Thank you! I’ll be here all week!)

Once again, I find myself wondering what these guys will pull off next, and how well it’ll come out. At some point, they have to run out of steam, right? I mean, you can’t keep making clever homages to old dumb shit over and over without, at some point, crossing that line into making old dumb shit yourself… right? I mean, the writing is on the wall for these two clowns, right? Right?

Who knows. They’ve lasted longer than they should have, and, I have to admit, I’ve enjoyed their stuff a lot more than I should have. It’s creative and passionate, two things rarely found in the greater Los Angeles area. As long as their egos don’t get the best of them, here’s hoping they don’t stop having fun.