John Wayne!

Snow

2008-02-25T22:26:00.001-05:00

A TEST:

..."O Superman"...

[[with]]

..

google: David Nilsen

Read best available biography with devotion and interest

[Repeat] playing of Laurie Anderson hit from 1981 for the ,duration

(((((BLUE)))))

Sever white mask from frothy red underbelly and consider reflection. Over and over. And over. And over and over.

Beige and Unruly

2008-02-25T16:57:00.007-05:00

AFRICA ADDIO GUALTIERO JACOPETTI + FRANCO PROSPERI 1966

What can you say about a movie that features close ups of the dead unborn offspring of both elephants and hippos, freshly ripped from their mothers' slaughtered carcasses and still covered in womb juice? Or 10 minutes of nubile teenagers frozen in slo mo mid air joy jumps? Oh yeah, or the two men who are executed? And all in the name of reality.

For three years, Mondo filmmakers Gualtiero Jacopetti and Franco Prosperi ran around Africa during an incredibly volatile period of de-colonizing and came home with a documentary featuring genocide, constant animal slaughter (by poachers and natives alike), and specious philosophizing about the unruly continent. For their (nearly fatal) efforts they were branded racists, frauds, and, in the case of Jacopetti, murderers (a charge of which he was tried and acquitted). From a suitably boring amount of internet research I still haven't cleared up all the controversy. The directors still maintain the absolute veracity of every single scene, but critics claim that certain animal hunts-though involving real killing-were organized by the filmmakers, etc. etc.

Viewers weened on too much online hype and speculatory buggery might go into this film imaging some kind of rangled together, herky jerky bit of exploito docu porno ala the contempo visual style developed in COPS, polished in Saving Private Ryan et al. and currently present in every reality television show and action movie one can wave a puke-swabbed middle finger at. The rapacious nose of the current camera and its giddy intrusiveness inform most all visual culture (whether cyber or Hollywoodland) and our present understanding that the intimacy of surgical voyeurism necessitates a lot of FX-textured gore and a camera man up to his sinuses in bad coke.

Not so Jacopetti and Prosperi (or rather amazing cinematographer Antonio Climati). While you might get a case of the spins watching today's reality exploitation, Addio does desensitization ten times better by clearly and steadily freezing their victims in a pre-video game pure cinematic eye. The consequence is consistently GRAND ICONIC imagery. And there's not a wasted frame in the whole miserable spectacle. Many, if not most of the best images simply command complete awe. The effect is utterly mesmerizing and captivating in its seductive objectivity. We don't know what kind of manipulation is going on behind the scenes, but we can't deny what we're seeing.

This is not to imply Adio doesn't have a self-consciousness in its imagery or that there isn't quite a bit of cheese. Frequent extravagancies of style contribute to the double-edged effect of the film. For every perfect widescreen long take that focuses us squarely on some savanna antelope riddled with hunters spears and gasping for breath, there's a dizzyingly instantaneous zoom-out (1) waiting to happen. The film in fact is coated in style from its artful framing to its bombastic, schmaltzy score (2). It's so enthusiastically composed and so consistently styled that it largely looks more like Hollywood epic than documentary.

And so it is spectacular in the extreme. Its lack of intimacy or psychology, and emphasis on shear movement of masses of populations (human and animal, largely against one another) imagines a world of senseless power games and empty action. The constant fascination with violent death contrasted with moments of incredibly juvenile humor throw us further into awkward ambivalence, where sympathy is undercut by cynical condescension.

I can't say if, despite its refusal to 'properly' contextualize its sensational material, this atrocious and meticulously vile film accurately captures the terror and irrationality of Africa during this tumultuous period in some twisted way or another. But the directors really did live the hell they show (for 3 years apparently). And for all the criticism leveled at their questionably muddled politics, the moral quandaries elicited by all the nasty distancing produced by the filmmakers' narrative-visual approach are surely born out of the fact that perhaps, the filmmakers just got too close.

Purveyors of Mondo Macabro's every release might complain that I'm just over thinking schlock, but this is really in an entirely different league than some minor Sergio Martino flick. I could write a whole book on this shit.

But I won't.

Anyway, worth a look! And then some kind of colon-cleansing detoxification for the soul. Cheer up!

1. While the constant zoom-out shots are a bit goofy, they do heighten the de-personalization and complete rejection of character that are Jacopetti's and Prosperi's stock in trade. Frequently individuals are filmed in extreme close-up and then promptly zoomed-out upon to reveal their total anonymity in some massive crowd. A smattering of crushed egg shells are treated the same way at one point.

2. Which is curiously reminiscent of the main theme to Henry Hathaway's kinda classic western The Sons of Katie Elder from the previous year.

P.S. This turned out to be such an anti-matter bum trip that I actually agreed to go to a movie theater in a mall last night with my girlfriend to see Persepolis as an antidote. Turns out, that movie's a bit of a downer as well. So I'm listening to a couple hours of old Gunsmoke episodes on CD (that's right the radio program, not the boring TV show) this afternoon to try and feel human again.

P.P.S. I was working on a long revisionist sorta take on Howard Hawks' Rio Bravo (starring yours truly) and using all kind of metaphors like how the jail is like a virginal womb or how the door Stumpy is always guarding is an anus and all of Berdette's men are like faceless homosexual rapists feared by Sheriff John T Chance's band of repressed reactionaries. But as much as I believe that the film is loaded with interesting sexual subtext, I realized that there was no way I could make all this shit readable or amusing and it started to feel like a college assignment anyway. So count yourselves lucky, lest I try to academically eviscerate some other treasured childhood heirloom at some point in the future. There was going to be one clever thing about it though, and that was this image to lead the piece off:

Combination Hot Sticker, Mango Chutney Omelette, Baby Back Ribs, Fried Cheese Plate

2008-01-19T12:12:00.000-05:00

Sorry about the absence, etc. To make up, I'm giving you, the ever-rapacious customer, 2 year-end lists (film + music) with a collection of reviews of recent viewings to be appended shortly.

As much as I'm drawn to film, I don't go to the theaters terribly often. I'm very picky and when it comes down to going out to pay $9 for fucking Helvetica or staying in and netflixing some artsploitation from the late 60s, I usually vote my conscience. I'm not sure if film culture has actually gotten worse or if, by not living in New York or LA, I'm just not exposed to the latest in cutting edge cinema. Regardless, you will only find 3 2007 releases in my best of film list. The rest were first viewings of retrospective screenings and rentals that I enjoyed much better than say, I'm Not There. I should also note that while I don't consider Mr. Bjork's film to be a 'great' one, its feverish rhythmic hedonism prompted my girlfriend and I to have sex in the IFC bathroom following the film. Thus, it bares some recommendation.

As for the music, I probably bought more CDs, records, and tapes in 2007 than in the previous 4 years of my life (that would be college) combined. I also did quite a bit of downloading, but have found the rewards of a growing iTunes list to pail in comparison to handling actual vinyl.
My employment has remained spotty and low-paying however, so I can't say that I've been able to fully dip my toes into the world of the ardent collector but I suppose I probably have a better perspective than in high school. I tended to attempt to keep up with the very latest 'underground' sounds in 2007 for once, so my collection is beginning to grow large past historical-contextual gaps, but that's just the way it is. To saying nothing of the contextual gaps of 2007 that I have left to fill (Lambkin, et al.). Along with the painfully obvious recent stuff, there's a few older or very recently past things that were more or less purchased during 2007.

So without further ado....

THE MOVIES:

Black Christmas Bob Clark (r.i.p.) 1974
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof Richard Brooks 1958
De Lama Lamina Matthew Barney 2007
Evil Dead Trap Toshiharu Ikeda 1988
Heaven + Earth Magic Harry Smith 1957-62
The Holy Mountain Alejandro Jodorowsky 1973
Hush, Hush...Sweet Charlotte Robert Aldrich 1964
India Matri Bhumi Roberto Rossellini 1959
Jonestown: The Life and Death of Peoples Temple Stanley Nelson 2006
Laura Otto Preminger 1944
Le Circle Rouge Jean-Pierre Melville 1970
L'Eclisse Michelangelo Antonioni (r.i.p.) 1962
L'Intrus Claire Denis 2004
No Country For Old Men Joel + Ethan Coen 2007
No End in Sight Charles Ferguson 2007
Performance Donald Hammell + Nicolas Roeg 1970
Pierrot Le Fou Jean-Luc Godard 1965
Pink Narcissus James Bidgood 1971
Simbiopsychtaxiplasm: Take One William Greaves 1968
Sult Henning Carlsen 1966
Tini Zabutykh Predkiv Sergei Parajanov 1964
Werckmeister Harmóniák Bela Tarr 2000

Best? How about L'Intrus.
Worst? I guess it's a tie for Little Miss Sunshine, Volver, or Blind Beast vs. Killer Dwarf.

MUSIX:

16 Bitch Pile-Up Bury Me Deep Tronix CD
Air Conditioning Dead Rails Load LP
Akitsa Goétie Hospital Productions CD
Burning Star Core Operator Dead...Post Abandoned No Quarter CD
Cadaver in Drag Raw Child Animal Disguise LP
Cecil Taylor Unit Structures Blue Note CD
Harry Pussy Ride a Dove Siltbreeze LP
Francisco Lopez Untitled #104 Alien8 CD
Mouthus The Long Salt Important
Pere Ubu The Modern Dance Blank LP
The Peter Brotzmann Octet The Complete Machine Gun Sessions Atavistic CD
Pink Reason Cleaning the Mirror Siltbreeze LP
Pure Fetor Freak Animal CD
Royal Trux Twin Infinitives Drag City CD
Sic Alps Description of the Harbor Awesome Vistas LP
Sightings Everything
Skarekrau Radio The One-Eyed Swine is Queen Apop CD
Sword Heaven Entrance Load LP
Temple of Bon Matin Bullet In2 Mesmer's Brain! Bulb CD

LIVE:
Indian Jewelry @ Ronny's (Chicago) topped almost everything in the altered state department. I doubt I would ever buy a record by this crappy fashion band, but it was a one-of-a-kind show. I saw Lightning Bolt for the first time as well and got to hold Chippendale's mic up to his mouth for the encore. Swoon.
Otherwise: Sightings @ Rhinoceropolis (Denver), Air Conditioning/Mammal/Cadaver in Drag/Paranoid Time @ Flower Shoppe (Chicago), Oakeater @ a few different times (Chicago), Kites @ Mr. City (Chicago), The New Flesh @ Ronny's, and probably some other stuff.

Satisfied? Well, I just saw some more movies recently! Including a couple that are better than like 90% of what was on my top 2007 list! Stay Tuned...

A Departure...From Reason

2007-12-20T22:04:00.000-05:00

Feeling a bit seasonal, I have decided to take a break from the imagery of Sodom to review a Christian musical album that I obtained for free. Merry Christmas reader(s)!

The Trees Community The Christ Tree 1975 (original LP)

I downloaded this totally beautiful album a while ago and just listened to it again. It's fucking awesome so I wrote a little blurb on Amazon, as I've been visiting them quite a bit recently for gift buyin. Anyway, 'Hand/Eye' reissued the alb earlier this year on CD. There seems to be both a one disc version and a mini box set. I'm confused. I don't know much about the band, but they are (or were) a bunch of Christians! I haven't really followed the current (or recently past) 'freak' folk scene at all, but this seems complimentary. Except good. Also, it's not heavy on the 'weirdo' wanking at all. It's actually very tightly structured, fairly minimal and very songy. And very haunting and kind of sad, like all good religious-themed music should be. Anyway, this is my review with a few tweaks from the 'original':

Previously raised as a resentful, doubting, and fearful evangelical 'Christian' and now turned aimlessly non-dogmatic atheist, I find this disc to be the perfect succor to my laissez-faire spiritual void. Gorgeous harmonizing and tasteful folksy/psychy bits really put you out in the forest and around the fire in New Hampshire with Brother Jesus. Lovely, and appropriately crisp, clean sanctifying music and if you believe, as I do, that if God existed, he would probably never listen to any contemporary church music (i.e. adolescent acoustic 'singer-songwriter' desperate virgin bullshit) then you can probably get down with this. It's too bad the cover art for this reissue looks like whatever someone scraped off the cutting room floor for an Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians music video circa 12 years ago, but besides that crass disappointment, this is heavenly in a way that should unite the Chosen and the Sceptical alike for the coming egalitarian and non-patriarchical promised land. My similarly atheist Jew girlfriend and I did an hour long lights-out improv in our apartment to this thing*, so if you need any more recommendation then that, you're probably going to Hell. Seriously buy this. Or download so as to avoid the art.

*For the sake of effect, I retained this erroneous claim, when in fact we danced to Ksiezyc's S/T, which I also downloaded and which is also great. But not necessarily Christian, although it could be if God wished it.

Meanwhile, Down at the Old Procrastination Station

2007-12-14T02:30:00.001-05:00

For now:

[Papa Wayne, reflecting]

Baby Back Ribs

2007-10-24T12:04:00.000-04:00

MY KID COULD PAINT THAT AMIR BAR-LEV 2007

[Mosquito Bite]

Serious considerations raised by Marla Olmstead semi-tragic story include the following:

1. What does a 5 yo child's 'ability' to produce occasionally impressive works in line with a 50 yo 'avant-garde' tradition, say about said form?

2. How has Marla's work been generally received among the contemporary art world, besides by a few pathetic fogies?

3. Why would Marla's parents even begin to aggressively sell their non-yet-in-kindergarten daughter's work and why would they continue?

4. What are the economic ramifications of a child's play time in an already poorly perceived adult medium (at least by the "masses") that's paying for her college education? To the delight of her Frito-Lay-factory-employed parents, that is.

5. Isn't it problematic that Marla's dealer admits, on camera, that his initial goal in getting involved with the girl's work was to give a big 'screw you' to the art world (abstract expressionism more specifically), which he felt left out on. This dick head has, however sold photo-realistic canvases for $100,000.

Etc.

Instead, My Kid throws on the dunce cap and sharpens pencils for an hour and a half while I wonder why I could frame a better shot every fucking 2 minutes. Seriously, this is a horrible movie with little to no conception of an arresting or even basic documentary approach. There are absolutely no solid interviews here and nothing approaching an enlightening perspective on a curious human interest story.

Roughly .614 through My Kid's running time, director Bar-Lev courageously breaks through the fourth wall and directly addresses his camera as it gracefully wobbles atop his dashboard, capturing scintillating eye candy of the approaching highway asphalt. Our humble auteur ponders his own stake in the increasingly problematic documentary underway by asking:

"What is my investment in this film--to convince you that I'm a 'great director?'"

Wow. Twee moments of startlingly naked self-reflexivity aside, chalk me up as 100% un-fucking-convinced, Mr. Bar-Lev. Approaching documentary filmmaking like a friendly game of 20 questions without the nasty inconvenience of the question-asking, My Kid's director plays push-over substitute professor to an enthusiastic audience of remedial students by like totally not giving the pop quiz, and then instead--check this--ordering pizza and having everyone sit in a circle and say what they like about each other.

Okay, for real, this unbelievably incompetent and ironically (or is that appropriately?) visually juvenile documentary is not quite as lite and pussy as the title. It almost certainly would have been however, were it not for a late second act controversy that sets our trusty documentarian on a Bergman-esque (good year for it!) journey through hallways of self-doubt, paranoia and self evaluation. This it appears, much to the delight of many cineastes, as gleened from on-line blog comments, reviews, et al. who were like totally relieved at not having to learn about, you know, art.

U C , Marla Olmstead started painting with her dad as a wee one, and by 4 and 5 was selling the odd $25,000 oil canvas in, omfg, Chelsea. After a year or so of the debatably deserved limelight our pint-sized Picasso (oy...) gets set up with a hidden camera by 60 Minutes for a month or so and after producing--under the covert eye of Big Brother herself--a decidedly non-masterpiece, according to Charlie "Skeletor" Rose's guestpert (along with a snippet of audio in which Daddy Mark sounds to be coaching her just a wee nip too hard), a major blowup ensues suggesting that Marla may not be the true author of her work. Given that her brand of Ab.Ex. varies from very good to tardsville, this revelation mostly subverts the child prodigy mythology and accompanying dollar figure (a point that Bar-Lev's aesthetically bereft film seems fixated upon) of Marla's works more than any taste issues. Which are left, 'surprisingly' unexamined.

Given that any kind of public backlash towards the film's subject was apparently never considered, Rose's revelation is a pretty hot potato for our director to handle. Thus, his boring, troubled conscience takes over for Marla in the heroine role for the remainder of the film. Tragically, this controversy turns out to be a big blow (in the real world) for the Olmsteads. Marla appears destined for baby genius skid row until her industrious parents manage to film their own TOTALLY CONVINCING "start-to-finish" DVD of Marla making a masterwork.

Before this tight disc drops, Bar-Lev attempts a similar project, just to prove his and others' suspicions wrong and ends up with some spilled paint and a shiny Mr. Sunshine. Curiously however, Marla's return-to-glory work is totally gay and bad and looks like oil painting as channeled by a schizophrenic street artist (aren't they all?). So, the film never really answers that question, whether or not Marla really did or does get some serious help from Pops. But it sure as fuck milks the mystery as dry as a prerequisite art history class. Meanwhile, director Bar-Lev completely forgets to maintain anything like a professional relationship with his subjects and incisive inquiry gets dragged through the shit heap like a bunch of models through blue paint.

That said, My Kid Could Paint That is worth seeing for anyone vaguely interested in contemporary art and questions of authorship, etc. Don't expect to take much away from the theater besides frustration and questions un-addressed, but do go. It's like totally okay on some level.

[MUSIC BOX THEATRE]

Jungle Juice

2007-10-11T12:13:00.000-04:00

JONESTOWN: THE LIFE AND DEATH OF PEOPLES TEMPLE STANLEY NELSON 2006

Sweet JEEsus God Almighty in Heaven Above, Our LORD...SANC-tifier, PURE-ifier, DE-liverer, Ohhh and a Thousand Amens lifted on High to Your Name! Jesus Jesus Jesus, we be but lonely, desperate sinners in your eyes. But I beg you, PLEAD with me brothers and sister now, I beg you sweet Jesus Heavenly Father, Give us a SIGN! Hear me now brothers and sisters, babies and grandma-mas, mothers, brothers, wretched, poor and rich alike, Jesus Above send us a sign to pull us out of this pathetic slump, this maladjusted stupor. Move us from our seats and pull our sticky asses off our couch in an inspiration of renewed enthusiasm, for LIFE and for all the good things you done given us!

Lordy! Give us such a sexually entwined power-tripping, kool-aid drenched American Apocalytic debacle of a movie as pure and true as Your Mama's hymen! Thank you Jesus! Brothers and Sisters, we are low, so low and our lot has been one of disappointment and bitterness recently. We have become disillusioned-disillusioned, I say to the point of cynicism, that most wretched of sins. We've looked High up in Heaven above for the sweetest holiest cinematic succor, the classics, the auteurs, and Satan KNOWS we've looked Low. So low, my people, have our shameful late night communions with the devil's playthings reached, that we were want for reprieve...

And lo, my people GOD has sent us our reprieve! We been sittin on our couch, as our slothful habits dictate, drinking the drink of the Lord (1), and we threw in our latest piece of digital celluloid, expecting little and hoping for much. And Jesus Lord on High, Heavenly Ghost, he answered! And we were glued to our set. For nigh on an hour and a half, we sat with breath, tightly bated, hearing this sad sad tale of our brothers and sisters in Jesus Christ, how they was all swooped up by this charismatic charlatan, this devil-man and his wild ways and aviator glasses. We were there when they drank the kool-aid and we HEARD those babies crying and that Evil evil man sayin "Don't, don't be like this...Die with dignity!" A thousand and one damnations on his soul, Lord.

We will now take communion brothers and sisters. Mind you don't spill none.

Amen.

1. Pacifico, with lime.

Ahh Chicks with Goats

2007-10-03T13:49:00.000-04:00

SWEET MOVIE DUSAN MAKAVAJEV 1974

In SW's blandly evenly-lit, faux-naturalistic and unstylized universe recalling more the world of late 80s generic comedies than the mid 70s art house provocation for which it aims, a nearly mute beauty undergoes the gilded-penis taking of her flower and a subsequent degeneration into wallflower irrelevance as Otto Muhl's commune takes over for the final and most dramatic segments of this unsurprisingly over hyped litany of elbow-to-the-gut 'shock' tactics. Meanwhile, Ann something, a Polish ex-partisan eccentric commandeers a funny kindofa sailing vessel laden with candy and mischief down some river. Pierre Clémenti's singularly watchable performance of the film accompanies. The whole marshmallow creme-stuffed, chocolate covered, coconut-flaked ball of waxy fakery is appropriately delivered as if by the jittery hands and farting giggling demeanor of an overstimulated, overexposed and yes, sugar-highed 8 year old lad caught with his grubby mits in the cinematic cookie jar. Or maybe by a much younger raggamuffin, elated after taking its first real shit in a toilet. Sufficing to say, his imbecilic enthusiasms are not contagious. Except perhaps during the vaguely Tomato Kecchappu Kôtei-recalling stripping seduction of a handful of preteen boys by Captain Ann. Yummy! Muhl, however was right to subsequently and fairly regretfully dismiss this irritating piece of taffy stuck to the molars as "downright kitsch" as no amount of found holocaust corpse or weird baby exercise footage or 'zany non sequitur' or sexual hijink can slap the idiotically saccharine smile from this fool's face.

Kool-Aid Live Aid

2007-09-24T14:06:00.000-04:00

SHADOWS OF OUR FORGOTTEN ANCESTORS SERGEI PARAJANOV 1964

[actual film is in color]

A contagious kind of exuberance charges Parajanov's first major work so ferociously and rich in religious fervor that it transforms a crude, cartoonishly simple romantic tragedy into a vortex of hyperkineticism, lyrical beauty, and drunken worship. I'm not sure how this film would play on a TV screen, but in the 'theatre' it's a truly sweeping and nearly physical event. There may not be a single repeated shot in the whole film (in a good way!), but consistency is found in the repeated low angle shots, causing characters to waver and nearly loooooooom over the audience.

Ivan and Marichka first exchange pleasantries (a slap from former to latter) immediately following the death of the boy's father at the hands of the girls'. Marichka is wealthy and Ivan is not, and apparently they live in a lawless frontier without much in the way of court systems, so Ivan's father's murderer is fairly overlooked (as will be others). But $ doesn't matter much to each child and after getting slightly familiar the two set off on a playfully erotic nude bathing excursion in the woods. It's cute and very underage and marks one of many shockingly unexpected segues, this time into the couples' early adulthood, at which point Ivan sets off to find his fortune.

But all does not turn out as happily as planned and I was a bit disappointed by the all-too-early exit of Marichka's naive maiden. Best remembered during a lengthy wavering zoom-in on her tear and rain-soaked face following a passionate goodbye to Ivan, Marich's childish devotion keeps things in high spirits. Once absent, the mood is a bit more dour, but no less splattered and juiced.

An early faded red tone of the film gives way to more naturalistic hues later on (purposefully or time-ravagedly I cannot say), which I found a bit disappointing again. But still the playground swing-informed cinematographic aesthetic never wanes, dropping us into severely canted angles at one moment, skewed geometric landscapes, striking close-ups, or flat theatrical medium shots at any possible other.
There's no end to style in this film and more than surface-level window dressing for an otherwise simplistic plot, the camera movement and bravado grants a hallucinatory and devotional urgency to the material. If the showy shooting exceeds the romantic cliches, it perfectly matches director Parajanov's great enthusiasm for Pagan and Christian folklore, as elaborated in several bawdy rituals.

Besides the active camera, Shadows' frequent and irreverent holy rites filled with dance, eery song, and eerier costume lend the primary narrative thread a strong undercurrent of fable. Far less sober than the title might imply, the film freaks like the Monty Python crew (circa Holy Grail) getting drunk in the folk art masks section of the natural history museum and reenacting a skeletal version of Romeo and Juliet with inspiration from Andrei Rublev as interpreted by Seijun Suzuki's visual schizophrenia.

My expectations were REALLY high for this one after the first 20 minutes or so, and things feel slightly predictable and linear by the end, but for the most part this is some out out singular genius stuff.

Apparently the director made one more stone-cold masterpiece a few years later and then alternated the remainder of his career with stints in the Soviet GULAG.

Another reason to appreciate the wealth of opportunity and freedom of expression provided by American capitalism, eh comrade?

[Gene Siskel Film Center: Chicago]

Room for More Rheum Anyone?

2007-09-13T19:48:00.000-04:00

HUSH…HUSH, SWEET CHARLOTTE ROBERT ALDRICH 1964

Virulent piece of sensationalist Crumbling Mansion/Visage-styled trash from the same connoisseurs of feminine hysteria who brought us What Ever Happened to Baby Jane('62), Hush… was supposed to pair Bette Davis with Joan Crawford once again for another fertile bout of feline clawing, but the latter proved so difficult and eventually became so sick that the role went to the still-gorgeous Olivia de Havilland. Taking over where Crawford was likely coating the set in toxic yellow spittle, de Havilland exudes a stern yet demure waspy-kinda cunning to perfectly play off Davis’ expectedly manic cake-face howl. If it’s a battle of cruel stench then the only thing Hotter ‘n’ Wetter than that thick Loooooziana air is these 2 nasty old broads’…

Me oh my! Seems someone chopped off head and hand of ol’ John (Bruce Dern) back in 1927, and dear Charlotte (Davis) looked to be the easiest suspect:
Immediately following a shock-o-rama murder to rival early H.G. Lewis or top shelf Hitchcock, a blood stained Charlotte emerges from the scene of the crime into a room full of hi-society revelers, looking about as guilty as Captain Sin at the wheel of the Sacrilege X-press. Well! Never convicted but never cleared of charges Charlotte’s been holed up in her dead daddy’s estate with naught but a crudely unrecognizable Agnes Moorhead for company all these many years. And family doc Drew Bayliss (Joseph Cotton).

Anyway, in the present day Charlotte calls on her ol’ pal Miriam (de Havilland) for moral support, as it seems the City’s about to take her property away to build a bridge on. Things start to get sticky, and there’s a foul game afoot when it’s all de Havilland and Doctor Drew can do to try and placate dear Charlotte’s more hallucinatory urges. But something doesn’t smell right to Ms. Moorhead and if I said anymore you wouldn’t have to see the movie, hmm?

Worth it alone by far for Davis' transcendent performance as a shrieking heap of boiled alabaster caught in the dellusional prison of her own putrid mind. De Havilland is the perfect sparring mate and plays restrained a tad less fiercely than I imagine Crawford would have.

But what really lets this film rise from piercing melodrama to cinematically rich High Camp is Aldrich's overly-embellished flair for visual intoxication. Drawing upon a monotonously repeated visual motif alluding to the above mentioned corpse’s specific manner of dispatchment, director Aldrich uses every available opportunity to dismember, dissect, and disembody his leads with as many severe shadows as he’s got. This trick is extra effective due to the bold contrast between darks and lights throughout the film. Characters spend most of the tale enveloped in a harsh white, near-interrogative glow, and it’s only when Aldrich’s bold thick diagonal shadows rip across their torsos that the ever-looming black and misty background begins to lay claim to their hacked-up forms.

If Aldrich’s battle of the broads does anything it goes to show how outrageously aligned is the monstrous and horrific with the ‘feminine.’ While most horror films work on the voyeuristic anxiety associated with dude-on-dame slicing and dicing, Hush…Hush proves without falter that there’s absolutely nothing as gruesome nor sheet-soaking as watching a couple ladies go teeth to vagina as it were over love & money. Hard as it is to chew, Aldrich’s sloppy sweaty soap opera is nearly as starkly gutsy as Blood Feast, gilded almost with the same high mark of arch-style as Welles’ Touch of Evil, and EVERY bit as knowingly nihilistic as Psycho. And a good glop more messy and far more scary than fucking Baby Jane. Highly and inexplicably underrated.

Suave v Mauve

2007-09-04T15:28:00.000-04:00

ELEVATOR TO THE GALLOWS LOUIS MALLE 1958

A B&W sheen adorns Malle’s feature debut so crisply, cleanly and faintly, the film seems wrapped in silver gauze. Or maybe that’s the post-one-a.m. fairy dust settling in for the night at the corners of my eye sockets. Either way, this Elevator carried my sticky ass like a dream-cloud through 1.5 hours of gorgeous Gallic style and street smarts with enough patience to let me stay awake for it all. (Can’t say as much for my travelin’ companions…) At times out-Melvilling the dude himself, Malle’s proto-New Wave noir handles criminal logistics, ex.angst, menace, and rhythm all with equal, how you say, a-plomb.

After performing the perfect murder of sultry Florence’s husband, cool + collected killer Julien(1) hastily hustles back into his office hi-rise to undo a forehead-slappingly obvious and overlooked clue only to be trapped in the elevator on the way up. The torturous liftian purgatory of the corporate world, Julien’s impenetrable elevator suspends him between earthly freedom below and Catholic absolution—or at least concealment—above. It’s also a shitty alibi. When two sexy teens in love steal his running auto left on the street and take it on the lamb, convincing Moreau that Julien has fled with another dame as they whip by her in a coffee shop, you know this shit has to go bad. Malle cops James M. Cain riffing Shakespeare and by the end everyone incriminates everyone so hard Hope starts to look like a faded, rotting, Disney reel from the early 30s deemed too corny for the masses.

If icy French cigarette-kinda flicks aren’t normally your bag though, I should mention that Miles ‘diddy’ Davis does the soundtrack. Convinced?

1. That’s Jeanne Moreau, a cheeky Jean Wall, and Maurice Ronet respectively.

Where’d I See It?
MY ‘LIVING’ ROOM [chi-town]

INDIA MATRI BHUMI ROBERTO ROSSELLINI 1959

On the opposite end of the (hardly) color(ed) spectrum exists Rossellini’s recently (almost) restored, re-released, rediscovered, reappraised ‘masterwork’ India…, which looks about as crude as that eye crust I mentioned in the above spew. I got a glimpse of a screen capture on the internets that implies the film should be full-color (see! above!), if not quite of the Peter Maxian ‘quality.’ This recent overhaul of a purportedly tattered film however, is sticky as dog vomit and just as murky. Visually speaking, a good part of the really light stuff is completely washed out to shallow blanco and the rest is either dusty lavender or a couple shades of mustard. (Stone-ground for the curious.)

To sum plots, I heard it starts off with a really cheesy narrated travelogue bit summarizing something ‘r Other as the camera flies over Bombay. But I missed that part, somewhat on purpose, and jumped right into the (mostly) fiction. Mostly because it’s presented as documentary but I guess the director gave the actors lines and parts and scenes even though (I think) they were mostly living and doing in their normal environs. So here’s the line-up:

1. Young man works as an elephant handler. Picks up local hottie.
2. 30something dad slaves at an open pit moving rocks. Watches a corpse get incinerated. Speaks poeticism. Yells at wife in film’s funniest sequence.
3. Stubborn codger vs. ravenous tiger.
4. Cute monkey’s master dies. Said simian moves to city for a new scene.

There’s some really nice fluidity between the transitions of these four parts and all stories seem to contain some kind of cohesive logic (besides the obvious Man & Nature theme) but damned if I missed the narrative “morphing” that the Chi-town Reader’s Rosenbaum was flogging. There’s a beautiful kind of flow and pull going on though, that’s for sure.

Referring back to the previous debate, in the end, the film kind of seems like neither fic nor doc. It plays exactly like a film world, just like a good film should. Not so much documentation as hallucination then…due in no small part to the aid of a ferociously dirty soundtrack. Birdcalls smother drumbeats become dying baby cries hump monkey legs yelp thick fucking jungle noise all over the place. U C? And the theater (scusa, theatre) played it loud too. Damn surprised there weren’t any walkouts. I mean, the film is one of those enigmatic ones. And fuck, ‘not much happens.’

But it’s cool, because there are a million good scenes, like when all of the elephant handlers wash out all the pachyderms’ wrinkles or the vultures circle the dead man or the tiger prowls around looking like Shere Khan with a bone to pick. It shouldn’t all Be so magical, but somehow it Is.

The sound's thick and crunchy and that’s how it looks too. It doesn’t even matter that it’s in India or that it’s shot by a Frenchie. Could be, someone scraped the back of your lungs and performed a really cool puppet show behind the gooey screen? You wouldn’t know the difference.

If you happen to live in a ‘major’ city, this will likely come your way and you should probably catch it. Just so you know.

Where’d I See It?
CHOPIN THEATRE [chi-town]

The Bats Have Left The Bell Tower

2007-08-26T01:33:00.000-04:00

SOMBRE PHILIPPE GRANDRIEUX 1998

No doubt, the first 5-10 minutes are absolute balls filmmaking. Fever dreaming, life in hell, terribly original homemade horror. Grandrieux uses the camera as an actual third character, an unreliable narrator, provocateur, and rapist. It looks dark and shabby and nakedly video. It's ugly, plain n simple. When not puppeteering for children, our protagonist moonlights as a serial killer with an interest in prostitutes. It's cold and psychologically bereft of insight. It's nearly perfect.

Cue the emaciated remains of Elina Lowensohn as an unsinkable redeemer-love object, and the film spreads its seems to reveal a soupy mix of utterly conventional sympathetic killer plot constantly interrupted by out-of-focus visual experimentation. Even Grandrieux's dedication to darkness wanes as the film plods on. Literally, the initial unrelenting murkiness is traded for a painfully eclectic variety of visual schema. Metaphorically, theme and tone gradually turn reflective, associative, psychological, intimate, and character-focused, as the horribly base mad-hell avant-porn of the film's first breaths is rendered predictably human and conflicted by the end. In short, horror is described, not exploited. A shame.

It doesn't help that the film is an absolute mess, over-filled with an amateur's ideas and as easily seduced by cheap "artsy" camera tricks as by any sense of coherent rhythm. I can't help but feel that for all the narrative "ambiguity" and visual flair, the effect is of an overall less experimental film. Upon finishing it I was reminded of how much greater was Lars Von Trier's overlooked The Element of Crime--a postmodern crime film equally as enthralled with its own motivations--for establishing a cruel consistency and letting it subvert itself, rather than yank the viewer every which way and call it a maze.

After too long in this murky hall of mirrors, one starts to see stars: Gaspar Noe fakes Dogme 95 in a mash-up of Bruno Dumont fucking Stan Brakhage to the tune of credit card commercial parodies and bad pop anglais.
And nary a blink is blunk when Grandrieux lamely re-re-appropriates Bauhaus' "Bela Lugosi's Dead" (1) for an epic post-club scene reminiscent of badly lit and under-rehearsed Blair Witch-era Cassavetes. But excessive referentiality is hardly this film's original sin, as allusions are only there if you will them. Sombre only looks like bits of so much better cinema because it commits to nothing but a constant flurry of nearly good-to-great ideas.

All of this is not to say that bits and pieces won't stick with most viewers. There's so much attempted here that at least some of it is jarringly effective. Eye-rolling scenes of true idiocy rub shoulders with disarming half-genius. And thankfully casual brutality remains throughout the film as unpredictable as it is constant. At the very least, there's real promise on display, and Sombre is certainly worth a look. More rewarding, I hope, should be the only film Grandrieux directed since, 2002's La Vie Nouvelle.

In the school of narrative ellipses unfortunately, the end product of this film is more Lynne Ramsay than Claire Denis. Or mostly milk. No chocolat.

1. A song far more memorably abused in the opening epileptic fit of Tony Scott's icy vampire debut, The Hunger.

Reggaeton Ringtone

2007-08-14T22:56:00.001-04:00

I lied, people died. Sorry for the tardiness...

MURDER, SHE WROTE SEASON FOUR

"WITNESS FOR THE DEFENSE"

After a couple of pretty lackluster initial episodes on the first DVD of Angela Lansbury's unsinkable vanity gravy train, I was ready to chalk a most risky of birthday presents up to misplaced nostalgia }}} That is until I hit this cathode catheter of pure fucking Fletcher juice and like a wee babe, remembered why I sucked at the withered teat in the first place! Sippppppp, ahhh. I suck balls at predicting killers in TV or movie-mysteries and I had this one nailed in like 5 minutes. Every flat joke, "Whaaaa..." freeze-frame episode-ender, obvious peripheral character, and transparent twist is here! But all players carry off the cream with not so much as a well-hidden grimace; and panache to spare. Lansbury could probably sell the nu-metal Holocaust to a Socialist bloc made up of music critics from the New Yorker, Nation, and NPR without breaking a sweat or showin her garters. But then, SHE'S A FUCKING LADY!!!!! Which she proves quite handily in this rollicking episode while playing good-hearted nag to Patrick McGoohan's barely recongizable defense attorney blowhard. Needless to say, hijinks ensue. Case closed!

"OLD HABITS DIE HARD"

Also excellent. Recalling, if necessarily faintly, Italian horror by way of Mario Bava (i.e. The Whip and the Body) and the gloved stand-in hands of Dario Argento (to say nothing of 70s nunsploitation), this episode is safer than Sister Act(1), but manages to sneak in a handful of not atrocious shots, a horn of plenty of secondary characters, and a nail-biting scene where our beloved Jessica almost bites the big one (God's waiting room, not Matlock's bar exam, ya pervs!). The plotting here was actually a bit muddled for my sleepy brain so I really don't understand what happened, but all in all a delicious ride. In other words, I would recommend it to your mom. Cool?

MOVING ALONG BRISKLY...

Single(ish)-sentence takes on the best and brightest that befouled my last 2.5 weeks in no particular order. Run-ons allowed:

LAURA OTTO PREMINGER 1944 (Film Forum/NYC)
Witty-as-fuck King Kong Klassic film noir. Probably perfect, right?

INDIAN JEWELRY (Ronny's Bar/Chicago)
Houston schlub-rockers make love to 13+ different local die-hard scenester musical assistants in one of the most explosive and effervescently plastic spectacles of faux-raga I could ever hope to imagine!

FORCED ENTRY SHAUN COSTELLO 1974
Original XXX (remade as an R a scant year after) proto-slasher could be grislier and lags considerably (for me anyway) during its obligatory hardcore fornicatin' segments, but things get spicy during the genuinely grueling degradation of the utterly convincing second rape-kill scene!

VEGAS MARTYRS THE FEMALE MIND
Recent Troubleman Unlimited rerelease of a Dominick Furnow project from a couple years back. Guitar, electronix, and drums sound about like what you should expect, at a respectably loud enough volume, with a few nice surprises besides the nifty translucent green LP!

KILLER OF SHEEP CHARLES BURNETT 1977 (Music Box Theatre/Chicago)
Old-school humanism from Burnett's amazing example of unforced sympathetic American neo-realism in this might-as-well-be-documentary of the Watts 'ghetto' in L.A.!

PERMANENT MIDNIGHT/SKAREKRAU/OVEROVA (Empty Bottle/Chicago)
Anti-pretentious power electronics, costumed cock rock (with nudity!), and 3 masked jazzdweebs sounding like an unrehearsed version of Sightings (who I like!) should sum up this nearly drunk-enough night pretty *********ing well!

THE END; COCKSUCKER?

1. Which I did have to actually watch recently if you, dear reader, can even imagine. Grim 2B sure.

FRIENDS + FOES...YOUR PRAYERS HAVE BEEN ANSWERED!

2007-08-09T20:04:00.000-04:00

Sorry about the absence. I have been traveling and will return--with both vim and vigor--to the keyboard within a span of not more than 48 hours!

Expect any one, combinations, reductions, or an absence, of the following:

a. A brisk cataloguing of the various shows and films I've seen over the last few weeks with appropriately brief review of each.
b. Multiple series of out-of-focus digital photographs of me jacking off to youtube against different pastel-colored backgrounds.
c.
d. All of the above.
e. It's a surprise.
f. Nothing.

Tune in shortly if you've been feeling deprived and see, see what your HEART KNOWS TO BE TRUE!

Down at the White News-Junkie Apollo

2007-07-29T13:32:00.000-04:00

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!

2007-07-23T01:24:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-18T22:23:00.000-04:00

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!

2007-07-16T22:50:00.000-04:00

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!

2007-07-09T14:04:00.000-04:00

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...

2007-07-07T18:49:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-04T16:09:00.000-04:00

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!