Down at the White News-Junkie Apollo

NO END IN SIGHT CHARLES FERGUSON 2007

Never since I saw the first Scary Movie in the blackest theater in my neck of Connecticut have I had such a raucous theater-going time of it! Turtlenecks were stretched out, lattes were spilled, epithets were offered unapologetically, and many a single man ran home after to get his Daily Kos fix. Fuck. A guy next to me even drank an "outside" beer during the film. Someone called Condy a bitch. It was wild.

But not so wild, I'd imagine as the QUAGMIRE IN IRAQ. While Ferguson's doq nimbly dodges the apparently irrelevant question of the rightness of the decision to go to preemptive war in the first place, he does a fine job of showing how fucked was the logistical planning. It's a bit hard to sympathize with beauracrats and military officers who just wanted a cleaner war, but for a more coherent, level-headed denunciation of the Debacle in Iracle, I can't imagine the concerned cineaste could look much further.

Only, come to the film with all lobes firing, as one tee tee break and you're liable to miss a few op-eds' worth of information. The facts and figures come flying fast and free, and like any documentary I've seen of this scope, I always leave having wanted just a bit more context or even a dissenting voice here and there--no matter how objectionable it might be. But a dedication to more or less common sense explication, a surprisingly lean and economic narrative, and a rhythmic sense of connection-drawing make for a pretty convincing experience. Even if one is left wanting to do a bit of research on one's own following the flick.

Essentially, No End is just good filmmaking. The story weaves subtly and un-contrivedly between the universal and the personal, intertwining points of view in a way that Mike "Sicko" Moore would never even attempt even if he could. The editing is fluid and miraculous and every still interview shot feels just as urgent as the unusually well-chosen shards of shaky on-the-ground news footage.

While many other Iraq pics take a harder stance on the conceptual reasons for going to war, I imagine No End in Sight will be the film that's most fondly remembered.


Incidentally, today's my berfday and I'll be celebrating with a trip back to the Forum with the GF to see Preminger's Laura on the silver screen. Drinking to follow!

There's Doings About!

DRAMA/MEX GERARDO NARANJO 2006

There, see. I don't even remember las dramaticas so well and it's a scant hour after the fact. Such is the case with the sultry stick of cinematic sweet, in one eye and out the other, or so the proverb goes. Or maybe it's the humidity. Or probably the PBR. Theaters have A/C and I want nothing tonight but a slap on the back of the head and a prod in the right direction.

Naranjo answers the call with this silly nod to French New Wave, adolescence and a vague sense of menace. Sailing along on the wings of a few very iconic scenes and some incredibly sympathetic (nay, downright cute) leads, the unfortunately titled Drama/Mex seduced me with naught but a side-long glance from Ms. Diana Garcia--she of very potential AmerAppar ad-porn fame. That and a modestly chubs teen with designs upon a suicidal ex-father who share a Lolita relationship of Lost in Translation proportions minus the obvious gag factor.

To sum, it's a narrative mix along the supposedly (insanely mis-reviewed) lines of Amores Perros but it stinks like my 8th grade vid project, which basically translates to a possibly unearned but commendable feeling of authenticity. Story 2 involves the aforementioned Ms. Garcia intermittently fucking some Ryan Phillipe-wannabe prick while ditching crowd-favorite, Gonzalo, with the final analysis approving of the hometown fave.

Plot issues aside, it's take your pick of very fine video cinematography making the most of a few hot Mexicans or an indulgent romp in the post-Y Tu terrain. Or is that the same territory? Or have I cum too far?
Either way, my buttons were pushed and we've here got the sandy sitcom-cum-Myspace love story of the year--or stories as the case may have. A perfect night out and a damn decent flick, though by no means excellent, this is a day-in-the-life without the social comment that a few prick reviewers seem to demand so violently.

Charges of nihilism and emptiness were raised RottenTomatoes-wise, but your's truly answers to a higher calling: immediate gratification. In that arena, Naranjo answers muy graciously. In substantive terms, I was left wanting as the tale spins from possible Battle in Heaven-level psycho-drama of the higher order to a neat 'n' tidy beach bash of earthly delights. But that's the point, so find your own waterfront softcore. Or in other words, the girls are hot, the lasting impression's not.

Kudos to a handful of great shots, some sex, and an old man crying over the barrel of a revolver. If that's not a way to kill a hot summer night, then maybe I need a vacation.


WHAT AM I LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?
Well, Nancy & Lee downstairs, Magnetism of War by Bone Awl up here!

Inexplicable Rodent Fetishes Became Him

FOR WHATEVER REASON I LOVED STORIES INVOLVING MICE AND RATS AS A CHILD...THE FOLLOWING LIST OF FAVES WILL BE UPDATED AS NEEDED:

1. The Great Mouse Detective (animated film) dir. Ron Clements, others 1986
2. Mice on Ice (picture book) Jane Yolen 1980
3. An American Tail (animated film) dir. Don Bluth 1986 (movie-tie in book) Emily Perl Kingsley 1986
4. Mickey's Christmas Carol (animated film) dir. Burny Mattinson 1983
5. Doctor Desoto (picture book) William Steig 1982
6. Danger Mouse (animated TV series) originally produced Brian Cosgrove 1981-92
7. Mystery on the Docks (picture book) Thacher Hurd 1983

Possessed of an averagely shaky memory, quality suggestions and reminders are most welcome!

Hope You're Feeling Better!

EVENING LAJOS KOLTAI 2007

Koltai, one of the least identifiable auteurs of modern times(1) directs a decaying skeleton draped in orange wax (played by the never-so-Crypt-Keeping Vanessa Redgrave) through a 2 hour ode to bay windows, tears that mix with snot on the upper lip, audience castration, and that pesky but industrious kill-joy, Thanatos. Claire Danes shows up a few minutes late for the audition, only to be green-screened into the entire film, while Glenn Close's naked forehead steals the show. I'll admit I got a bit choked up for Hugh Dancy's bi-sexual revelation moment-in-the-sun, but then Ms. Danes spoke a line. If Ethan Allen outlet stores were mortuaries, and if herpes is the new oysters, then maybe some of this drunken sermon might ring true. But they're not, so it doesn't and I just laughed my way through someone else's vicarious pain. In my defense, I currently reside upon coastal Maine.

List of injustices:
*Wise speak-easy pianist of African-American persuasion
*Toni Collette as a former Suicide Girl playing Sherlock to dying mom's vast store of dusty memories
*Like I said, Claire Danes
*Sunlight, exploited like it's going out of style
AND...
*Claire Danes tied with Eileen Atkins in Fairy Godmother fetish attire


1. Out to Sea and, among other transgressions, the Apollo to Dead Poets Society's Dionysus, The Emperor's Club

I See You're An Artist!

Below is perhaps the worst interview I have ever read. It's from the May issue of the Brooklyn Rail, perhaps not a disreputable (but still pretty bland) Gotham paper of culture and news. Two middle-aged painters, Peter Acheson and Chris Martin from Coldplay, interview some other middle-aged painter named Katherine Bradford. Now, the last third or so does calm down to a level of rather inoffensive adult conversation, but most of this is just mind-bogglingly stupid. Exemplary exchanges include:

"Bradford: The title is 'Regatta Armada.' Like most of my other paintings, it deals with the image of the boat. I think of the basic boat shape as a massive hull, connecting it to earth or sea, and then as it goes up into the air it turns lighter, like a sail.

Martin: I see it as an upside-down mushroom."

or just simply:

"Acheson: You are painting eighteenth century boats with sails. Why don't you paint destroyers or aircraft carriers?"

Believe me: tip of the iceberg. Funny shit...here:

http://brooklynrail.org/2007/5/art/katherine-bradford-with-chris

Miss, I ALSO Dabble in Torture, LARPing, and taxidermy...

GUINEA PIG: FLOWERS OF FLESH AND BLOOD HIDESHI HINO 1985

When hype exceeds quality as sure as a hacked-off mechanical rubber hand is a flimsy hors doeuvre for my blood lust, I can assure you that 45 (overlong) minutes have been spent in a less than satisfyingly erotic fashion. The Guinea Pig series needs little introduction, save for Charlie Sheen circa 1991 or those pitiably unfamiliar with J-gore. That said (ahem, allmovie.com), let's skip the introduction!

Flowers constructs its own tawdry mythology around pop-Samurai folklore and a bit of poetic mumbo-jumbo conflating the bloomin beauty of *flowers* with the ripe rot of well, *flesh*. Actionwise, we got an unnamed sadist-aesthete clad in Samurai helmet who saws, chisels, rips, and poses a young 20something working girl (no, not in that sense, mr. hard-up) in his newly renovated Park Avenue flat. All the while he's talking to the camera and changing different lighting filters, as this flick is a REAL LIFE recreation of a snuff tape sent to the director. Or so the Netflix bio goes. Dedicated internet gumshoes may tell a different tale after a minute and a half of research.

But brother, it's not that great. The gore is alternately quite realistic and plasticine pukery. The entrails look real, probably because they are (cow or sheep I suppose) but that damned right arm just gets too much attention for us not to notice its rubbery waddle. To make matters worse the girl is sedated throughout the whole ordeal! It's hard to generate fear, suspense, dread, or even much gross-out factor when the leading lady is a pile of lifeless silicone bio-extensions. Her sole physical contribution is a fluttering eye lid here and there.

A childishly methodical pace, some near gag-inducing moments (Story of the Eye anyone?), and a few well lit shots keep this from being an actual bore, but the 15 minute set-up is far more skin-crawling than the rather pedestrian surgery. To say nothing of the drawn-out, faux philosophy lecture at the end.

Skip the 40 minute movie, watch the FAR(1) more awesome 40 second DVD menu screen loop instead.


1. Which, actually, is probably worth the effort.

Confectioners' Lectures

WHITE DOG SAMUEL FULLER 1982

To dance with the white dog is a televised affair, but Fuller is a cineaste's cineman, so you (who?) can bet I saw this at a retrospective screening in New York. Maybe Brooklyn. Maybe BAM. Paired with Now!, a black and white short of comparably unsubtle intentions, the mood was set for irevolucion! Actually it was set for late-camp monster-horror when in the first 2 minutes: a bereted and boyish fashionista gingerly scoops off the dimly-lit asphalt the WHITE DOG that she just ran over, argues with a creepily jewey ($) veterinarian staff and brings the hulking albino German shepherd home to protect her from a poofy-haired boyfriend and a most invasive sexual predator(1). But when she realizes that by white dog, the Film was speaking racially and by that I mean racistly, she takes the poor hateful pooch to an animal trainer for the stars(2) only to have him turn her out. Cue a very sexy and decidedly ANTI-hate (Roots alum/black/privately gay) Paul Winfield: he KNOWS he's got to teach this dog a thing'r 3 about L.O.V.E. and does most handily.
Or does he?
Maybe you should watch the film?
Maybe I should explain.
The titular character is a motherfucking racist who attacks and mauls members of the darker nation. How now brown (er...black and tan) cow? Seems he was trained that a way by his previous owner. Winfield theorizes that the sleaze paid homeless black winos to continuously beat the dog throughout his developing years. As he got older he came to recognize dark skin as the enemy. But isn't there a metaphor lurking around here? Regarding the superficial fixation on Colour that hate doth possess, Sam.Ful makes the case that we're conditioned to fear our fellow man as his or her dark skin is reinforced as a signifier of threat. The last two minutes however, tell a subtler tail that I won't SPOILER ALERT SPOILER ALERT SPOILER ALERT spoil by describing. Sufficing to say, this is a social allegory that looks transparently simplistic on the one angle and gracefully executed on the 2. But Fuller knows how to stretch a yarn, throw in a few loopy non sequiturs--posing as cringe-worthy exposition of course, color coordinate (speaking art decoratively now, not racistly), and handle a camera but good. Great characters, funny hair, and a canine character that demands as much emotional investment as any anti-hero this side of, let's say, and I'm self-referencing here apparently, The Searchers' Ethan Edwards makes 3 reasons to rent or otherwise accrue this ['muthafucka'].


1. Or as the arresting officer says "that's the same damned rapist I nabbed last year"--the film's BIGest laugh!)

2. Paraphrase: "Remember when the Duke reaches into that pit of rattlers in True Grit? That was my hand. My hand gave the Duke an Oscar!" c/o Burl Ives!