Like Anna Karina's Sweater

Brains Not Required (Or: Whither Subtlety?)

"I want the audience to work. I ask them to see the film from the beginning and devote their full attention to it, treating it with the same respect they would give a painting, a symphony or any other work of art. I treat them with the same respect by inviting them to search for their own meanings instead of insulting their intelligence with obvious explanations." -- Michelangelo Antonioni Today it's a considered a masterpiece, but back in 1961, when film critics still mattered (or at least had the power to make or break a film), there were few who had kind words for L'Avventura. The above quote from the late Italian auteur was prompted by the negative, occasionally hostile reviews of his film. Reviews such as Bosley Crowther’s in the Times, who said, "Frankly, we do not gather what Signor Antonioni is trying to prove. . . .This business of being deliberately and even boastfully obscure in art not only is ostentatious but it also leads one to suspect the artist is not clear in his own mind and lacks self-discipline." The film's poor showing at the box office during its initial New York run can be attributed, in part, to Crowther's pan. (It wasn’t until a 1962 re-issue that the film found critical and commercial success.) Crowther's repetitive moaning about not getting it and his unwillingness to give the film the level of attention that Antonioni desired seems a bit surprising today, or naive at the very least, particularly from a critic of his standing. Today all but the shabbiest of critics are unafraid to confront the "obscure", and you're more likely to find passionate defenses of a challenging work rather than flippant dismissals such as Crowther's. Yet how often are today's critics (and filmgoers for that matter) given the opportunity to use their noggins once the lights go down? Are filmmakers living up to their half of the bargain, treating us with respect as expressed in the second half of Antonioni's statement? Less and less, I'm afraid. What's even more disconcerting is that spoon-fed meaning is finding its way into areas of cinema that were once refuges for those interested in something other than the bottom line. Hollywood has never been known as a factory of subtlety, and those working within the system understand the populist requirements dictated by those that hold the purse strings -- the axiom that capitalism perverts art is all too true. One goes to a Hollywood movie for the concept, and we're happy to bathe in the eye candy, the star power, and the extravagant budgets that could feed a small nation. Was a time that we could (for the most part) rely on independent and foreign films to provide us with an alternative to all that. These were works that were often mature and introspective -- films that made us think, or at least required us to actively engage with it, as opposed to passively being engulfed by the spectacle. Yet of late I find that few films require any sort of active engagement. Directors are happy to show us how clever/sensitive/witty they are, but they leave us with nothing to discuss, let alone think about. As small films made outside of the studio system, they needn't succumb to the lowest common denominator, but do nonetheless. I'm growing weary of independent and/or foreign films that are as compelling as a made-for-TV drama, that rely on heavy-handed symbolism while hammering their message into us. Films that tackle political/social issues, or moral struggles, and reduce them to childlike simplicity, with poorly written characters that exist purely as functions of the plot. More often than not these films are all about the third-act "big moment", which rarely comes as a surprise as the filmmaker has been dropping less-than-subtle hints throughout. With their meaning wrapped up and dispensed in a neat, foolproof package, these films not only discourage and resist discussion/analysis/interpretation, they're barely pleasurable even as divertissements. Two titles that immediately spring to mind are Thomas McCarthy's The Visitor, and Philippe Claudel's Il y a longtemps que je t'aime. McCarthy's film, a recent release, is a post 9/11 tale infused with liberal guilt and painted in the broadest possible strokes that can summed up thusly: a beautiful Syrian man and an even more beautiful Senegalese woman teach a cantankerous widower the true meaning of Christmas The Patriot Act. Critics were mostly upbeat about the film, though more words were spent on star Richard Jenkins' performance than on the film itself.* While it's pointless to argue against one's subjective response to the film, its solipsism, overtly didactic narrative, and simplistic approach to a complex subject is strictly res ipsa loquitur. What's left then to discuss? Claudel's Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, which was in competition at this year's Berlinale is a French film via the Lifetime Movie Network. Kristin Scott Thomas (performing entirely in French) plays a mother recently released from prison after serving time for murdering her son. Her married-with-children sister takes her in, and while we sit and wait for the reveal in which we learn of the circumstances behind the murder, Claudel, in every scene, finds an opportunity to beat us over the head with some sort of blatant symbolic reference to the parent-child bond. Much like The Visitor, critics focused not on the drama or the character study (there was little of either), but primarily on Thomas' performance, which many described as "brave", simply due to the fact that she wears little or no makeup throughout the film. What I fail to understand is why both McCarthy and Claudel felt the need to toss subtlety aside when making their films. Is it from a lack of faith in the audience, a limitation of their abilities as artists, or rather a desire to increase their chances at commercial viability? Regardless, it's both troubling and frustrating that smaller films such as these -- which continue to appear on the festival circuit -- would rather acquiesce to the safety of mediocrity than strive to properly explore or elevate the medium. While not everybody can (or should!) aim to reinvent cinema, there should be a greater effort from filmmakers, producers, and festival programmers to take chances on works that require more brainpower than it takes to simply sit and stare at the screen. The countless words spent on films such as There Will Be Blood, No Country For Old Men, and I'm Not There are proof enough that you don't need to force-feed us to hold our attention. *The 'meh' review, a tendency I've noticed in many critics of late, is, in my opinion, somewhat dangerous. Critics are giving self-professed mediocre films a pass by finding something worthwhile to say about them, while failing to give equal weight to the film's flaws. I address this issue in an upcoming post that certainly won't win me any popularity points.

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 16, Week 6

Last week's still life with Speak & Spell, which of course came from E.T.: The Extra Terrestrial, generated some interesting recollections about the film. Like me, many of you haven't seen it in years, and there's a shared hesitancy in revisiting it. The film got to me back in '82, but now I'm afraid I've grown too cynical to care about a precocious youngster and a stranded alien. Maybe I'm wrong. The Elvis Costello connection is that actor Robert MacNaughton sings a few bars of Accidents Will Happen. The best incorrect guess went as follows: Regarding Declan MacManus, I have no idea what the connection is, except perhaps: He is not Neil Diamond and did not write and sing an insipid song about the film. Sounds like someone needs to turn on their heartlight. This week: unquestionably one of the worst films ever made. This is not an opinion, but rather a hard, cold fact. Name this so-bad-it's-good travesty. Submit your answers to this address. Good luck!

An appropriately gray Thursday

The gray skies over New York City today, combined with a far worse than usual bout of seasonal allergies left me feeling sluggish to say the least, and finding both the strength and motivation to get any work done was next to impossible. Then word came out about critic, blogger, and personal friend Glenn Kenny getting axed from Premiere, and all hopes of accomplishing anything ceased. I guess in the current climate it shouldn't come as too much of a surprise, but honestly I didn't see this one coming, and I suspect Glenn didn't either. I'll be curious to hear parent company Hachette Filipacchi's rationale for terminating Glenn, and I sincerely hope this means the end of Premiere in the US, for to continue the site without him would be both insulting and pointless. I'm no stranger to the brash tactics of multi-national corporations and their policies of downsizing, and I can sympathize with what Glenn must be feeling today. With his years of experience (not to mention his remarkable breadth of knowledge), it hopefully won't be long before he finds himself in a new position. I can't help but wonder if Armond White is basking in a self-satisfied smugness, especially after his mean-spirited (and insane) rant from a couple of weeks ago where he gleefully spoke of Premiere's demise. I'm gonna go wander the streets. With any luck it'll start pouring.

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 16, Week 5

"Beside it every movie since Zéro de Conduite and Modern Times is so much child's play." Just one of the many eyebrow raising lines from James Agee's epic review of Chaplin's Monsieur Verdoux that took three consecutive issues of The Nation to run in its entirety. While Agee's piece is one of the strongest defenses of the film, a closer reading reveals certain contradictory statements throughout. (Statements I'm too lazy to dig up right now, but the entire review can be found in the must-own collection, Agee on Film.) That's William Frawley and Martha Raye in Chaplin's masterwork -- two actors who, in the 60s and 70s, could be found all over the tiny screen. Frawley of course will forever remain in syndication as Lucy and Desi's cranky neighbor, while Martha Raye ("The Big Mouth") would pop up everywhere from The Bugaloos, McMillan & Wife, and personal favorite, Alice. The two appeared together on screen three times -- in 1937's Double or Nothing, 1940's The Farmer's Daughter, and finally Monsieur Verdoux in 1947. This week: I don't think I've ever met anybody who hasn't seen this film. Name the film, and for a bonus point, tell me how Elvis Costello is connected to it. Submit your answers to this address. Good luck!

Tribeca 2008: The Good, The Bad, and The Couscous

Though it's still very much in search (and need) of an identity, this year's edition of the Tribeca Film Festival is the first one that hasn't left me with a case of agita. Is this a sign of a newly improved festival, or is it simply that I've finally learned how to filter out the noise and distractions while finding the needles hidden within the haystack of self-promotion and corporate ubiquity? Logistically, there was a vast improvement over past years, which had the press office centrally located to nothing, and screenings held in all corners of the city. Having everything within a few block radius in Greenwich Village made it much easier to dash out a screening, get some work done in the press lounge, and then quickly partake of corporate-sponsored snacks and booze in the beyond-surreal Target filmmakers lounge that left you feeling as if you had stepped into a living advert or twisted performance art piece. But what of the films? Of the seventeen titles I caught at the fest, eight ranged from meh to great, which is a respectable average for any festival. However, of the bad films, many were of the how-the-hell-did-this-wind-up-in-any-festival quality. That's not something I've experienced in Berlin, where the films I've walked out on are merely typical second-rate festival fodder. At Tribeca, the disparity is shocking. The reduction in the number of titles this year has no doubt helped the situation, but more needs to be done to remove the quantity over quality mode in which the festival functions. Though films such as War, Inc., The Auteur, and Confessionsofa Ex-Doofus-Itchyfooted Mutha might have some redeeming qualities (well, excepting War, Inc. which might be one of the most embarrassingly awful films ever made), they have no place in a festival that is hoping to attain a position equal to those held in other major cities of the world. Some argue that they are striving to avoid the (perceived) elitism of the New York Film Festival, but I don't buy that. It is possible to program a 100+ title festival without the inclusion of absolute rubbish – that is, if you let go of the mandate of having n world premieres. I'd much rather see Rotterdam, Berlin, or SXSW titles that have little chance of finding distribution than an insulting, unfunny, Hilary Duff vehicle. On the plus side, there were some truly wonderful films to be found, and whereas most years I walk away with (maybe) one great experience, there were several unexpected surprises this year, including a few that may end up among the best of the year. There's not much I can say about Guy Maddin's My Winnipeg or James Marsh's Man on Wire that hasn't been said elsewhere, but both exceeded my expectations. I've always been a fan of Maddin's films, but in recent years his aesthetic has overshadowed the content, and more often than not I've walked away feeling cold. That's not the case with My Winnipeg, where Maddin, no stranger to autobiographical flourishes, creates something entirely new with this "docufantasia" about the city he calls home. Seamlessly blending fact and fiction with footage both found and fabricated, it's his most personal work to date, and also his funniest. Though I was only eight years old when Philippe Petit performed his illegal walk between the Twin Towers, it was an event that friends and I discussed non-stop for days afterwards. Man on Wire, which unfolds with all the suspense of a heist film, lovingly recalls a New York City that is no longer – a more innocent time when the punishment for committing a criminal act such as Petit's was little more than a slap on the wrist. Though the film (wisely) avoids any mention of 9/11, it's almost impossible to watch Petit and his crew plan their WTC adventure without drawing a parallel to another group for whom the allure of the towers was the antithesis of Petit's. Yet as good as those two films were, the real find of the festival was Abdel Kechiche's nearly-perfect The Secret of the Grain. The latest film from the Tunisian-born auteur (whose  L'Esquive was one of the best films of 2003), The Secret of the Grain is a nothing short of cinematic poetry – a tribute to the director's father and a eulogy to the North African working-class of southern France. Slimane, a sixty-something shipyard worker with an ex-wife and several grown children, struggles to survive the changing economic landscape, where long-term immigrant workers are being replaced by inexperienced newcomers who work for a fraction of the price. Not content to spend the rest of his days living off his measly pension, he decides to take the great leap into entrepreneurship (There Will Be Couscous), though he must fight a system that by design is working against him. At over two-and-a-half hours, Kechiche's drama is an incredible slow burn that takes over an hour for any semblance of a plot to appear. Yet during that time we are deeply immersed into the world of Slimane and his family through a series of lengthy vérité sequences that introduce us to the myriad of characters in Slimane's life. Kechiche loves language and the power of the spoken word (a theme of L'Esquive) and the epic dinner sequence, which has family members discussing everything from the price of diapers to the marital indiscretion of one of the sons, is reminiscent of Cassavetes – not only structurally, but in its unyielding, infinite humanism.  Though on the surface the film becomes a question of whether or not Slimane will triumph over adversity, it does so with resorting to cheap theatrics or melodrama. It remains lodged somewhere between documentary and neo-realism, and its various digressions into social critique, political commentary etc. are more significant than its plot progressions. An extremely balanced work, Kechiche doesn't romanticize the bonds of the community, nor does he allow the film to get lost in a naive optimism.  I'm intentionally being vague about the plot, for I feel it's best to walk in knowing as little as possible. At the same time, I feel I need a second viewing before being able to discuss it in greater detail. However, I can state, without any hesitation, that the final half-hour contains one of the sexiest, most erotic sequences I've ever seen on film. And it's not even a sex scene. There isn't time at the moment to write about other highlights of the fest, though I'm hoping to find some in order to shower praise on three other wonderful discoveries: Somers Town, Guest of Cindy Sherman, and the odd but unforgettable Milky Way Liberation Front.

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 16, Week 4

Back in the 80s, I went through a full-on teenage obsession with Nastassja Kinski that began when I saw Tess and lasted until the god-awful Revolution in 1985. In fact, in 1982 I wound up stealing her hairbrush, and if you buy me a drink someday I'll tell you how that happened. Klaus' daughter appeared in a handful of impressive films in the first half of the decade, but my personal favorite has always been Paul Schrader's Cat People, the source of last week's quiz. Though certainly not as effective as Jacques Tourneur's original, Schrader's take, with its taboo-tinged eroticism, made quite an impression on this sixteen year-old. Nuff said. I've just another day or two of Tribeca screenings, and though a full report is in the works, I will say that this year has turned out to be quite surprising in the number of winners they've programmed. The bad films are as bad as ever, but I think a current tally of films seen so far yields more hits than misses. Maybe. This week: this pair has appeared together in multiple films, and those of you who grew up on televised reruns should have no trouble recognizing both of them. Name the film. Submit your answers to this address. Good luck!

The Guatemalan Handshake - Out today!

Today marks the release of Benten Films' third title, Todd Rohal's The Guatemalan Handshake. The long road to this release began in January 2007 in the lobby of the American Museum of the Moving Image, where I first met Todd and told him how enamored I was with his film. At that time he was actively being courted by another distributor, but our perseverance finally paid off after many months of negotiations. No mumblecore title this, Todd's film is a lush 35mm Cinemascope affair that looks gorgeous on DVD, thanks to the new anamorphic color-corrected transfer we prepared exclusively for this release. With package art by illustrator James Braithwaite (animator of the Oscar nominated short, I Met the Walrus), an essay by director David Gordon Green (George Washington, Pineapple Express) written for this release, and over two hours of bonus material, The Guatemalan Handshake is our most ambitious release to date, and the many nights, weekends and holidays that Aaron, Todd and I (and others!) sacrificed have certainly paid off. I'm always at a loss when asked to describe the film -- it's better experienced than summarized. I can say that it is a warm-hearted indie-comedy in the true sense of the word, unlike recent attempts by Hollywood to mask multi-million dollar projects by slapping an indie tag on it and rolling it out at Sundance. This is a peek into the imaginative, inventive mind of writer/director Todd Rohal, and it truly is a labor of love. (And a costly one at that!) The film, which stars indie-rock hero Will Oldham (Old Joy) and features music from David Wingo and The Moldy Peaches (Kimya Dawson, Juno), has been receiving some wonderful reviews, including a glowing writeup from Michael Atkinson over at IFC, a review from Peter Nellhaus (who finds hints of Vonnegut in the story), and a short piece from (oddly enough) style.com, who refer to Todd as a quirkaholic. Buy it, rent it, steal it from a friend, but do try and see it. Click HERE to see a clip from the film that features Will Oldham and Sheila Scullin performing a Moldy Peaches song.

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 16, Week 3

Some people had trouble with the abstract math. True, Abba+The Beatles+2 Marx Brothers = 10, but what I was going for was two quartets and half of another = 8 1/2, the name of a trifling little film by a once in vogue Italian director of little importance....Freddie something. That is of course England's own Barbara Steele, whose haunting beauty became a staple of Italian horror films throughout the 60s, including Castle of Blood, An Angel for Satan, and of course Cemetery of the Living Dead. Though not a master of the thespian arts, she has a presence that once experienced is not soon forgotten. One of my all-time favorites photos of her is this one, which comes from a  1963 Vespa calendar. Simply lovely. The Tribeca Film Festival is about to begin, and I've already managed to see a small handful of the 1,859 titles programmed this year. Two wonderful films, two barely-watchable disasters, and a few that are just....meh. Expect some coverage here in the coming days. This week: I'll continue with the Filmbrain cinematic obsessions for yet another week. This one's too easy, I'm afraid. At the very least, that haircut screams a certain decade from the not-too-distant past. Name the actress and the film. Submit your answers to this address. Good luck!

On the other hand...

You know....when you receive constructive criticism from friends on multiple continents, it's probably a not a bad idea to take a step back and conduct an assessment of what you've written. Friday's post on the critic/blogger wars of the early 21st century was fueled by handful of factors, some relevant, others less so, and was written in haste at the end of long week full of setbacks, disappointments, and frustrations. Reading Tom O'Neil's Sunrise review was the proverbial straw that broke....you know. Over the past few months my interest in film criticism has surpassed that of watching films. Perhaps it's due to how mediocre I find many films these days, or simply a result of seeing too many. Regardless, I've been trawling second-hand book sites for out-of-print volumes on film criticism that I've wanted to read for years but never did, including works from Dwight MacDonald, Raymond Durgnat, Charles Barr, and Otis Ferguson. The mini-epiphanies I've been experiencing from their writing has intensified my sensitivity to shoddy criticism (my own included), which is why I've become frustrated with the counter-productive ad nauseum arguments raised at these symposiums on film criticism. For while those with talent and skill are busy pointing fingers and fighting turf wars, people like Tom O'Neil and Luke Y. Thompson continue to flourish. It's disheartening to say the least. Yet as a friend from England pointed out, for all my repeated calls for responsibility and professionalism, I was somewhat guilty of being neither in Friday's post. I wasn't present at the Moving Image Institute, and for me to formulate conclusions based on second-hand information that is itself laced with subjective interpretation wasn't befitting of a blogger trying to disprove blogger stereotypes. Don't get me wrong – I'm in no way knocking anything Karina wrote, but for me to use her interaction with A.O. Scott as a jumping off point isn't the strongest foundation to build an argument upon. An acknowledgment that hierarchies exist doesn't necessarily equate to an embracing of the status quo. I still hope the day arrives where we all can truly get along, and band together against a common enemy, but for the time being I need to chill out. I think a walk in the park followed by a heavy session of some comfort films (The Blues Brothers, Bande à Part, Goodfellas) will make me right as rain.

Critics v Bloggers Redux (Or: I've heard that song before...)

It's with a sense of bemused fascination that I've been reading Kevin Lee and Karina Longworth's dispatches from the Moving Image Institute in Film Criticism, which ended on Tuesday. Unlike my recent comments about the NYU workshop, it seems that there was plenty of healthy discourse on the current state (and future) of film criticism, and the timing couldn't be better with critic firings becoming a regular occurrence. At the same time, I can't help but feel that much of what was said was simply a retread of arguments we've heard for several years now. New York Times critic A.O. Scott's presentation (thoroughly covered by Karina) was refreshingly candid, if not a bit dated. Like corporate structures of yore, Scott believes in a traditional top-down model that places old-media critics at the top of the pyramid, and bloggers somewhere in the tombs below. It's an understandable position, perhaps, though his stance on commenters – who he likens to rabble-rousing riff-raff scaling the walls of Versailles – is not only passé, but it's the kind of spurious generalization brought out time and again that somehow magically brings the discussion to a close. While it's true that there are those whose contributions are little more than efforts at baiting the writer, it's nowhere near the level Scott believes it to be. Check out the comment threads on any of the heavily trafficked serious film blogs – The House Next Door, Glenn Kenny's blog, Girish, etc. – you'll find plenty of disagreement and argument, but for the most part it's quite civilized. Fortunately, there are enlightened visionaries like Matt Zoller Seitz who truly get the new paradigm, and who are not afraid to bite the hand that feeds. Matt, who has one foot planted in old media (he too writes for the Times, and elsewhere) and the other in one of the best online communities for film criticism (the aforementioned House Next Door), views blogging as a means of returning "human communication to its natural state," effectively wresting power away from ad-driven media conglomerates who, based on comments he's heard from colleagues, are stifling their writers. Unfortunately, however, Matt's views in the critic vs. blogger debate are the minority opinion, and many still see bloggers as a nuisance. In fairness, there are plenty out there who are contributing daily to the negative impression, and this brings me back once again to the issue of responsibility that I raised in the NYU post. I left a lengthy comment that I'm quite proud of over at Kevin's site which delves further into the matter. Please have a look – I'd love for more to join the discussion. I'm longing for the day when bloggers and critics can get together in a room without pulling the hierarchical bullshit (and that includes paid bloggers looking down at those who do it for free) and flippant generalizations, and actually discuss how we're going to move forward and keep the art of genuine film criticism alive, because the threat is coming just as much from the corporate overlords as it is from those sullying the blogosphere. Plus, when you get right down to it, we're the only ones reading each other's work. Not to beat a dead horse, but I leave you with a little quiz. What follows are two excerpts from reviews on Murnau's Sunrise; one written by an unpaid blogger, the other by a salaried professional whose work has appeared (amongst other places) in the very paper Mr. Scott calls home. Can you tell which is which? Sunrise weaves fluidly through the canvas of human emotion with the poetic grace of a silent, visual masterpiece. Directed by German expressionist icon, F.W. Murnau, the film is an ageless tale of dichotomy: betrayal and redemption, duty and hedonism, innocence and guilt, tradition and modernization. ... The camera tracking during the city scenes is seamless and adept, echoing the frenetic pace and limitless possibilities of urban life. Emotional turmoil is reflected in contrasts of light and darkness, shadows, exaggerated physical stature, and translucent, superimposed images. Sunrise is paper-thin, hilariously schmaltzy. All three primary characters are cartoonish clichés and their performances 3-inch slices of honeyed ham. Mind you, I'm the kinda guy who'd normally side with the weepie. On my top 10 list of fave pix of all time are Peggy Sue Got Married and Titanic. But I just can't shed a real tear when the farmer in Sunrise decides that he just — by golly! — can't off his sweet, dimpled wifey-pooh, after all. ... What corn pone! Smothered in Cheez Whiz! Wings ain't Shakespeare or Scorsese, mind you, but it's better than that!

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 16, Week 2

Was it the not-too-familiar visage of Mimsy Farmer, or rather the porn star cum one-hit-wonder Andrea True-themed clue that led to the overwhelming number of correct responses received for last week's quiz? I tend to think the latter, for Barbet Schroeder's More is more of a forgotten relic than anything else. Back in the "experimental" days of my youth, I thought the film was the bees knees, but a recent viewing leads me to believe that one of us hasn't aged well. (Okay, it may be me.) Still, as far as hippie junkies with a proclivity for frequent nudity go, one can do a lot worse than the tanned Ms. Farmer, who reminds me of a cross between Jean Seberg and Mia Farrow. Congratulations to all that guessed it, especially the many first-timers. Glad to have you on board. This week: another actress I was obsessed with some years ago. (Hmm...maybe I've found my theme for the round.) Name the actress and the film. Submit your answers to this address. Good luck!

bentenfilms.com v2.0

Just in time for our upcoming release of The Guatemalan Handshake on 29 April, Aaron and I are proud to announce the launch of the newly designed and overhauled Benten Films website. Along with detailed information on our current releases, there are pages for both The Guatemalan Handshake and The Free Will (Der Freie Wille). There you'll find information about the releases, stills to download (suitable for framing), and a trailer or clip from the film. We've also created a features section, and to kick it off there's a wonderful interview with Ola Podrida frontman David Wingo, composer of not only The Guatemalan Handshake soundtrack, but also David Gordon Green's George Washington, All the Real Girls, and the recently released Snow Angels. The site still has a few kinks, and we're in the process of redesigning (and adding content to) the Benten Blog, but otherwise it should all be fully functional. Feel free to stop by and say hello. Benten Films website

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 16, Week 1

Spring has finally sprung in New York, and as it is every year, there's an almost overwhelming number of great retrospectives cropping up at the same time as the Tribeca Film Festival, that unruly beast that always manages to include a few gems. (I first saw The Free Will at the festival two years ago, and, well, now I'm distributing it.) Between the Tomu Uchida retrospective at BAM, the 1968 films at the Walter Reade (including Robert Kramer's Milestones, which I've never seen) and the complete Godard 60s cycle at Film Forum, there's more than enough to aid cinephiles with their bouts of spring fever. Spring is also the perfect time to begin yet another round, the sixteenth in fact, of Filmbrain's weekly screen capture quiz! Though most of you know the drill by now, a quick overview for the uninitiated: each Wednesday morning a new screen capture quiz will be posted. All films come from my personal collection, and are limited to Region 1 releases. Answers may be submitted, via email, up until the morning of the following quiz. (Please don't post answers in the comments section.) Some quizzes may contain an additional bonus point question, which is a good opportunity to flex your cinephilic muscles and show 'em what you got. At the end of twelve weeks, the top three scorers will be allowed to choose any DVD used in the round as a prize. For the inaugural week, a film that's been on my mind of late. Not a great film by any means, and nowhere near as interesting now that I've watched it for the first time without the aid of certain....substances, but that's not to say it doesn't have its merits. Name it. Submit your answers to this address. Good luck!

Night and Day, You Are the One...

In his fourth film, 2002’s Turning Gate, writer/director Hong Sang-soo used Arvo Pärt’s Spiegel im Spiegel as the sole musical cue for the film. (Gus van Sant used the same piece for Gerry.) A minimalist piece for piano and cello that contains simple progressions based on three notes, it was an ideal choice for this bifurcated story of a washed-up actor and his mirrored relationships with two women. In the three films that followed (Woman is the Future of Man, A Tale of Cinema, Woman on the Beach) Hong worked with composer Jeong Yong-jin, whose playful scores were used liberally throughout, at times to great effect (particularly in Woman on the Beach.) For his eighth (and quite possibly greatest) film, Night and Day, Hong once again incorporates a classical work as a central theme, though this time he’s upgraded to the orchestral swells of the Allegretto from Beethoven’s 7th Symphony. It’s an apt choice, for just as the Pärt piece lent itself to the simplicity of Turning Gate’s structure, Night and Day is Hong composing, for the first time, in an orchestral vein. More mature in many respects, it’s a complex work that moves beyond his regular pieces for duos and trios, including a handful of characters on the periphery critical to the film's composition. That’s not to say that Hong’s moved in an entirely different direction. Night and Day, the next chapter in Hong’s deconstruction of Korean masculinity, revolves around another restless, self-delusional, insecure yet somewhat narcissistic artist whose words and actions are often contradictory – traits found in nearly all of his lead characters. Yet what’s different this time around is that there’s more at stake than simply a bruised ego, as well as genuine repercussions for each character's actions, both immediate and long term. At the same time, the film exhibits attitudes towards love, marriage and children not found in prior works. The film opens with forty-something Seung-nam (Kim Young-ho) arriving in Paris, having fled Korea after being arrested for smoking marijuana with an American (natch) exchange student. Stranded in a country where he doesn’t speak the language, Sung-nam settles in a cramped pension filled with other Korean expats. He spends his lonely days wandering the streets, and his nights in tears on the phone with his wife, desperate about his situation. The film is quite episodic, broken up into individual days, with the passage of time revealed by title cards indicating the date. Though his longest film yet (145 minutes), the pacing here is brisker than usual, with some of the days concentrating on a single incident in just a few brief moments. (Noticeably different, too, is the use of dream sequences – a first for Hong, if I’m not mistaken.) In a bit of Hongian Kismet, Seung-nam runs into Min-sun on the street, a former lover, yet doesn’t remember who she is (cf. Turning Gate). Unhappily married to a Frenchman, she hopes to rekindle the flame with Sung-nam, who agrees to meet her in a hotel. However, a last minute change of heart finds Sung-nam, in one of Hong’s most audacious scenes, reading aloud choice Biblical passages about sin to a near nude Min-sun. Has a male Hong character heretofore ever refused sex when offered? Soon Hyun-joo, an art student living in Paris, and her younger roommate, Yu-jeong enter the picture, and, not surprisingly, a distinctly Hongian triangle ensues, though it doesn't play out quite as expected. Emotional immaturity, drunken arguments, and failed attempts at seduction – staples of Hong's films – are all present, but at the same time the great distance from the comforts and familiarity of home finds his characters acting far less impulsive than usual. They're all searching for an identity, and sense of meaning, and in this regard the film approaches a realism not found in his earlier works – characters live for something other than the moment, and there are genuine consequences to their actions. At the same time this is also Hong's most symbolic film, particularly around issues of identity, family, and religion. Whether arm-wrestling a North Korean (as if defending his entire nation), rescuing a baby bird that's fallen out of its nest (just days after fawning over a newborn baby), or dreaming of kissing a woman's feet, Seung-nam's self-imposed exile results in a series of reflections on his life, his marriage, and his limitations as an artist. He's as flawed as all of Hong's male characters, but for the first time there are efforts at soul-searching. Like the opposites of its title, Night and Day is both solemn and playful, passionate and stoical. It's at once Hong's richest, most intricate film, yet in many ways his most minimal. I need to see it a second time to determine if it truly is his best film, but his evolution as a director is more fascinating than ever. A misleading, rather cheesy trailer can be found here. Night and Day currently has no North American distributor.

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 15 - The Winners!

The Think Pink sequence is but one of the many wonderful moments in Stanley Donen's Funny Face, the stylish 1957 musical set in the world of fashion that was shamefully co-opted by The Gap, who set one of Audrey Hepburn's dance numbers to AC-DC's Back in Black in order to hawk skinny jeans. Oh the wondrous evils of postmodernism.... We've reached the end of yet another round, and for the first time in a long time (ever?) there are no perfect scores. I guess fingers should be pointed at cranky uncle Jean Luc-Godard, for Hail Mary slipped up all but a scant few of you. That said, there were three near-perfect elevens who can proudly share the title of victor for the round. They are: Max G, Mike F, and from across the pond in dear old Blighty, Antony S. Congratulations to the three of you -- any DVD used in the round is yours for the asking. Be sure to check back next week for the start of Round 16! At the same time, I'll be making a concerted effort to post more frequently. It's not for lack of content, but lack of hours in the day. Who'd have thought that running a DVD distribution business would be so gosh darn demanding. . .? Update: Owing to a rather interesting bug discovered in Microsoft Outlook, it appears that Filmbrain regular JK M (aka J.K. M) is also an eleven out of twelve-er, making it a four-way tie this round. Well done, Mr. M.

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 15, Week 12

The original Casino Royale, that beautiful mess of a film from 1967 is one of my first cinematic loves. We had a 16mm print of it at home that I watched more times than I care to admit over the course of about a decade. During those "difficult" years, it was the charms of Barbara Bouchet (pictured in last week's quiz with Terence Cooper) that was the prime draw, but there's little about this film I don't love. From Burt Bacharach's unforgettable score (including Dusty's rendition of The Look of Love), the dream cast (Peter Sellers, Woody Allen, Orson Welles, David Niven, Deborah Kerr, etc.) and the fact that it had not one but five directors (including co-star John Huston), this bastardized version of one of Flemming's Bond novels is simply downright funny. Peter O'Toole's brief cameo might very well be one of the greatest cinematic moments of all time. No question, this is on my desert island list. Well, we're at the end of another round, and at this time next week I'll announce the winners who, as always, can choose any DVD used in the round as their prize. Special thanks to all the newcomers -- I hope you all stay for future rounds. This week -- a sunny film that knows a thing or two about rain. You know this one. Submit your answers to this address. Good luck!

The Said Comes From the Seen

I’ve been reading (and re-reading) Kevin Lee’s coverage of the workshop on the responsibility of film criticism (featuring Adrian Martin, Jonathan Rosenbaum and (in absentia) Nicole Brenez) that was held at NYU last week, and I can’t help but walk away with a somewhat bitter taste in my mouth. I met up with round-table moderator Girish Shambu early last Sunday morning, and he assured me that my charges of elitism were unfounded. (I should mention that I’ve been friends with Girish for about three years, and as everyone who visits his site well knows, he’s one of the most generous and open-minded thinkers in the film blogosphere.) His presence on the panel should have quelled my concerns, yet there are things that still left me with a sense of unease. It is perhaps somewhat ironic that, in his opening statements, Adrian Martin speaks of "the value of diversity within film criticism" at a workshop that (if I'm not mistaken) was closed to the general public. If, as he says, "the only thing a critic needs to write is to write bravely", and that there needs to be a stronger bridge between academic and journalistic writing, wouldn't it have been beneficial and/or productive to have representatives from the other side of the fence, whether paid journalists or mere bloggers? Yet when Girish raised the issue of the blogoshpere's role in offering unique forms of criticism not found in traditional formats  (which it most certainly does), the response from both Rosenbaum and Martin was the same old chestnut we've heard time and again. Rosenbaum's "people on the blogosphere seem to write before they think" and Martin's shock at learning of an anti-Martin website (which he describes as the collapsing of a cultural hierarchy) are the kind of knee-jerk, reductive arguments that make some bloggers (read: me) roll their eyes. Sure, there's plenty of crap criticism to be found on film blogs, but is there not just as much hogwash published in academic circles? I can't help but feel this workshop was something of a missed opportunity – a chance for two (three, had Brenez been able to make it) of the most brilliant, important critics working today to engage in dialog with the new generation of critics (some of whom are read by a shockingly high number) on the subject of responsibility – something that is in dire need of addressing in the online community. The individual presentations, while certainly interesting, rarely touched on methods of bridging the gulf between these disparate groups. (I'll openly admit that I do not understand what Nicole Brenez's paper (read by Martin) has to do with film criticism.) While the mainstream media continues to downsize its roster of film critics, film blogs are increasing at an exponential rate. What impact, positive or negative, is this having on film criticism as a whole? This is what I had hoped would be explored in the workshop. In his presentation, Adrian Martin speaks of "a certain strain of film criticism that assumes a condescending, pugilistic stance towards films, which he finds counterproductive." If, as Kevin points out in a comment, he's referring to the snark-infused style that has become de rigueur, then he's absolutely right. Yet just as irritating (and counterproductive) are those who write intellectually rigid but otherwise soulless prose in the name of film criticism. And what of the alarming rise of the new contrarians – the young bucks who court controversy with manufactured opinions just to find and maintain readership? All of these groups are equally self-congratulatory and narcissistic, and I'd be curious to know what Martin and Rosenbaum make of these developments. Apropos to this discussion, I came across the following quotes about film criticism in a book I picked up in Berlin last month: Jean-Luc Godard, The Future(s) of Film: Three Interviews 2000|01. "I prefer certain articles in L'Équipe on tennis matches that I've actually watched in reality or seen on television to certain film critics, because those articles tell you about the match at least: such and such a drive happened this way, etc. Film critics say what they would like us to think about a film. We might consider the evolution of Olivier Séguret in Libération. Before, he used to speak to his readers from a film, the way you can say you come from somewhere, as opposed to speaking about something. ... Daney was one of the last to do that work. He described the actual thing, you'd want to go or not, in any case you'd make your judgment based on the evidence. An entire paragraph of his article on L'Amant is devoted to a lace-up boot. You understand what takes place in the film. Likewise, when Rivette spoke about the tracking shot in Kapo, he described it straightforwardly, like Thucydides describing the Peloponnesian War. That dimension has been lost because we no longer see the film. You tell me it's good. You'll have to show me. I don't believe you a priori. What you say is interesting. Maybe you're even more interesting than the film."

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 15, Week 11

Guess there's not a lot of love for 80s-period Godard. How else to explain the surprisingly low number of correct responses for last week's quiz? Tant pis. The perfect film about the perfect mother, JLG's Je vous salue, Marie, aka Hail Mary is a not-uncontroversial take on the annunciation, immaculate conception, and birth of you-know-who. In Godard's version, Mary is a basketball-playing teenager who receives the annunciation by airplane, marries a taxi driver, works in a gas station, and a whole lot of other things that angered Christians worldwide. That's the lovely Myriem Roussel in the screenshot, who was actually 23 when she played the teenage virgin. This is a must-see, and the New Yorker DVD fortunately includes the companion film by Anne-Marie Mieville, The Book of Mary, which is equally as impressive as the feature. My desire to identify this film is rapidly becoming an obsession. Even my masters-of-film-knowledge buddies are stumped, though an anonymous comment suggests it might be Barbet Schroeder's More. I'll track down a copy later today to see if that is the source and let you know... Update: At around 1:20 this morning, friend and savior Glenn Kenny confirmed that it is indeed from More, allowing me to sleep peacefully. Hallelujah! Thanks, Glenn! This week -- I've definitely used this film before, but as I had the strangest dream about it, I couldn't resist. It's rare that the cinema of my subconscious programs retrospectives, but I dreamt a good chunk of this movie last night, right down to the soundtrack. Bizarre. Name this beautiful mess. Submit your answers to this address. Good luck!

"I took a little trip, and I don't feel much like talking about it"

Filmbrain needs your help. A friend in Japan recently sent me a rather schizophrenic mixtape of music he's been listening to of late. It's a wonderful compilation, yet it's all over the map -- techno, free jazz, J-Pop, Krautrock, obscure Italian soundtrack music, Björling, Bacharach, etc. The mix begins with an infectious minimal techno track by Nathan Fake entitled You Are Here, which opens with a bit of dialog from a film that I honestly should know off the top of my head, yet for the life of me can't identify. A man with a thick German accent, a young woman, an idling motorcycle, and a plane flying overhead. So familiar... Though I'm not quite losing sleep over it, it is driving me batty. Have a listen, and leave a comment below if you recognize it. Thanks!

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 15, Week 10

Though few had trouble recognizing the owner of that curly head of hair, many believed the shot came from The Conversation rather than the correct answer, Bonnie and Clyde. That's Gene Hackman as Buck Barrow admiring C.W. Moss' (greatest character actor ever, Michael J. Pollard) tattoo in Arthur Penn's poetic take on the infamous duo. As much I love the film, I can't help but wonder how it would have turned out had Godard directed it, which came very close to happening. (If I remember correctly, the studio panicked at the 11th hour.) My week has pretty much consisted of timing subtitles for a nearly three-hour film, a Sisyphean task if ever there was one. At the end of a marathon session the other night, I collapsed on the sofa and actually sat through Revenge of the Nerds II: Nerds in Paradise, as I was too burnt out to even deal with the remote. Sad days indeed. This week -- a remarkable close-up from an equally remarkable film that's perhaps a perfect choice for mother's day. Name the actress and the film. Submit your answers to this address. Good luck!

A Woman Under the Influence: In Praise (and Defense) of Julia

The morning after Julia, Erick Zonca’s third (and first English language) feature was screened for the press at the Berlinale, I bumped into a small group of acquisition folks from several American mini-majors. Each was thumbing through one of the dailies, quickly scanning the coverage of the previous day’s offerings – reviews that (I’ve now learned) can make or break a film’s chance for acquisition. I asked what they thought of Julia, for I hadn’t yet fully come to terms with what I thought of it. After a few quick glances at each other, I heard the following: "Too long. Has be to trimmed by at least thirty minutes." "Audiences won’t sit still for this." "You can’t expect people to invest that amount of time in a character with no redeeming qualities." "She’s hateful from start to finish. Where’s the entertainment in that?" "D.O.A." Their comments reflected the opinions found in the Variety and Screen Daily reviews. When I brought up issues of the film’s art, its homage to Cassavetes, and the brave lead performance by Tilda Swinton, I was met with stares and smirks. Looks that made it all too clear that it’s the bottom line that matters; as if to remind me that this a business, and nothing more. Now, granted, I’m but an infant in the distribution game, but if I should ever begin to toss around such flippant, dismissive statements, or begin to speak of film as pure commodity – kill me. Greencine's David Hudson is right when he says that Julia feels like several films in one, and as a result it took me several days to reconcile how I felt about it. I can’t help but wonder if other critics, who had but a few hours to turn in their reviews, would have felt different about it given some time to reflect. Perhaps not, at least judging by Stephanie Zacharek’s über-pan in Salon, where she feels the need to "send up a giant red flag to everyone who loved…The Dreamlife of Angels" and would gladly make a deal with Satan to get her two hours back. Ouch! Were my instincts wrong, even after two viewings? (I caught the film again on the final day of the festival.) It’s possible, but if anything my admiration for the film has grown stronger in the weeks since I’ve seen it. Contrary to early reports, Julia is not a remake of Gloria, though it is an unabashed tribute to Cassavetes, particularly in its creation of a female lead character that recalls the unforgettable roles he crafted for his wife, Gena Rowlands. Set in a non-descript and bland-looking Los Angeles, the film opens in a dimly-lit nightclub, where we first lay eyes on the 40-something Julia, dancing along drunkenly to The Eurythmics' Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This) as she attempts to seduce a married businessman. She's an alcoholic whose flimsy, low-cut dress, costume jewelry, and heavily applied makeup can’t fully hide the fact that she’s past her prime party-girl years. Her days typically begin in a strange bed or in the backseat of a car, dress hiked up, one breast clumsily exposed, and badly hung-over. What passed for sexy the night before looks less so by the cold light of morning.  Fired from her job, she turns to friend and sponsor Mitch (Saul Rubinek, in a knockout performance), who only agrees to help her if she goes back to AA meetings. It's there that she meets Elena (Kate del Castillo), a young Mexican woman who enlists Julia to help her kidnap her eight year-old son Tom (Aidan Gould), who is now living with his grandfather, a powerful and wealthy businessman. What follows is a kidnapping cum road movie that ultimately winds up as an action-packed suspense thriller. It's both an exhausting and exhilarating 140 minutes, to say the least. There's barely a moment that Swinton isn't on-screen, and it's clear that Zonca built the film around her. It's her strongest performance to date, and she allows herself to be filmed in ways that few actresses would, going beyond the sweaty-armpits and gut-fat of Michael Clayton, adding cellulite and a sagging bottom to this often-unflattering portrait of a woman on the verge. (I have to say though, it's wonderful to see a "real" woman on screen for a change.) Julia is an unpleasant character, but nothing she does is pre-meditated. She lives in the moment, unable and unwilling to plan ahead, let alone consider the potential repercussions of her actions; a lethal mixture for a kidnapper. As a result, her treatment of young Tom is extremely difficult to watch at times, though her negligence isn't sadistic by nature – she genuinely doesn't see what's wrong with leaving a child sleeping alone under the desert sky, or tying him to a radiator pipe. Some I spoke with in Berlin had a problem watching a character they deemed hateful – something that didn't trouble me at all. I've never subscribed to the particular dictum that lead characters must be likeable, made gospel by the likes of Robert McKee et. al. Zonca doesn't posit Julia as a victim, nor does he attempt to explain why she's become the woman she is – selfish, solipsistic, and in constant denial. Perhaps this explains why the response to the film has been so vitriolic. Though there are hints at redemption (including a bonding scene with the boy which is terribly out of place), this isn't one of those young-boy-teaches-the-old-drunk-about-the-true-meaning-of-family movies.  (Thank god!) Yet at the same time I think Zonca fails, somewhat, in his efforts at turning Julia into a Cassavetian character. Julia's downward spiral from mere alcoholic to felony fugitive is all well and good, and like Cassavetes, Zonca doesn't analyze her subjectivity – we're constantly forced to re-examine our assessment of her. However, what's missing is the undeniable humanism of Cassavetes, which found its way into all of his warts-and-all characters. More than Gloria, Julia is closer in spirit to Cosmo Vitelli – another down-on-his-luck character who resorts to a desperate act as means of survival. Yet Zonca doesn't plunge deep enough to properly explore the insecurity, alienation, etc. – the things that make her all-too-human – and she comes off as too much of an absolute, a thing Cassavetes' strove to avoid. The desperation is there, but she lacks the malleability of just about all his characters. Though much like The Killing of a Chinese Bookie, Julia manages to succeed as a character-driven study contained within the framework of a genre film. Visually the film is a treat, and Zonca and cinematographer Yorick Le Saux have truly captured the essence of American cinema of the 70s, with road sequences that recall Mazursky, Schatzberg, and Hellman, particularly in its use of muted colors and overexposed exterior shots, blown-out sunlight and all. At the moment Julia is without a US distributor, though I imagine that will soon change. It's somewhat amusing that Variety (and others) are calling for the film's running time to be shortened – that's the very issue Cassavetes faced on nearly all of his releases. To shorten it would reduce it to a mere action/suspense flick, and I pray it doesn't come to that.

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 15, Week 9

"How did he do such amazing stunts....with such little feet?" wonders Hedy Lamarr (that's Hedley!) moments before his death in Mel Brooks' comedy classic, Blazing Saddles. One of first R-rated films I saw in a theater, many of the jokes went over my nine year-old head, but there was more than enough juvenile humor to keep me entertained. I'll never forget the uncomfortable look on my father's face during the Lili von Shtupp sequence. ("It's twue, it's twue...") As I mentioned in yesterday's post, I did indeed see the series finale of The Wire, and it does not disappoint. I'll say no more but.....wow. This week -- I think this one might be too easy, but I just love this image. Name the film. Submit your answers to this address. Good luck!

Tangled up in Hong, Zonca, and McNulty

For over a week now I've been wrestling with two posts, neither of which I've been able to complete. One is a defense of Erick Zonca's misunderstood and much maligned Julia, and the other is an appreciation of Hong Sang-soo's latest, Night and Day, two of the best films I saw at this year's Berlinale. In the case of the latter, the key problem is trying to decipher the chicken scratch that makes up the twenty (yes) pages of notes I took during the screening. All these years and I still haven't learned how to write in the dark. Then again, my handwriting is atrocious even by the light of a thousand suns. I had intended to work on both this morning, but an invitation to see the final episode of The Wire has laid waste to those plans. Procrastination? Sure, but how could I pass up the chance to bid an early adieu to Jimmy McNulty and the rest of the Baltimore gang? Hopefully I'll be able to finish at least one of the posts by Thursday. . .

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 15, Week 8

I saw The King of Comedy the other night, and it really struck home. I walked out of the theatre, and there was a crowd of people waiting to come in. They all started to shout, 'Hey, it's Sting!' I'd just seen Jerry Lewis brutalised by a fan, and I felt vulnerable. I walk on the street a lot more than many performers I know because I feel it's my right. I don't have bodyguards and limos, because you have to maintain some kind of grown-up autonomy or you end up a baby... Still, The King of Comedy frightened me, and the end of the movie, where Pupkin becomes famous, really pissed me off. I wanted Jerry Lewis to just wipe the floor with him. I wanted Pupkin to fail as a comedian because he'd taken such a liberty with a man's life. But I realised that I saw the film from an isolated point of view. The rest of the audience seemed to find the idea funny of tying up a famous person and torturing him. – Sting, 1983 I vividly remember reading this interview on a beach in Santa Barbara back in '83, and the fact that it frightened Mr. Sumner so has (for some odd reason) never left me. Special thanks to quiz regular Mr. Mangold for locating it on the interweb! I've always considered The King of Comedy as an alternate version of Taxi Driver, with Rupert Pupkin being Travis Bickle's separated-at-birth brother. A box-office failure for Scorsese, I find it to be one of those films that only gets better with age. It's got Jerry Lewis basically playing himself, Sandra Bernhard in her underwear, and Kim Chan uttering the unforgettable line, "I'm having a heart attack already." Plus, it features members of The Clash in a cameo. What's not to love? Congrats to those who recognized Rupert's photo of his pride and joy. This week – you've seen this film dozens of times. I know this to be twue. Name it. Submit your answers to this address. Good luck!

Berlinale Diary 4: Transsiberian (Or: "Do you know who I am?!?")

This year's European Film Market featured over 700 titles, with an average of 150 films screened each day of the festival. As a result, it wasn't uncommon to find audience sizes in the single digits, often dwindling down to one or two by the film's end. However, each year there are a few titles that draw buyers in like moths to a flame. Back in 2005 a riot almost broke out at the lone market screening of Thomas Vinterberg's Dear Wendy, which at that time was a hot commodity. Kind of hard to imagine, but true. Though it was part of this year's Panorama section, Brad (The Machinist) Anderson's Transsiberian had an early market screening a few days before its premiere. Having just walked out of a terrible Korean film, I decided to wait the twenty minutes, having read a few good things about it from Sundance. It wasn't long before the (maybe) 150-seat theater was filled to capacity, with at least a hundred additional angry buyers vying to get in. As the din from those denied entrance began to rise, I heard a deep, booming, gravelly voice utter a line I never imagined I'd actually hear used unironically – "Do you know who I am?!?" I half-expected the self-proclaimed VIP to be ushered in to the theater, but apart from a brief moment of silence, nothing happened. I'd give my eye teeth to learn who it was that had the moxie to issue forth those words. I sincerely hope the mysterious buyer managed to catch Transsiberian, for though it's not the type of film one expects to find at the Berlinale, it is a brilliant genre exercise in white-knuckle tension and suspense that avoids the grand third-act set piece that has become practically obligatory these days. Anderson's film is one of those pan-European productions shot in exotic locales that is a throwback to such 70s suspense films as The Cassandra Crossing or Avalanche Express, while at the same time functioning as a gripping relationship drama cum morality tale. Woody Harrelson and Emily Mortimer play Roy and Jessie, a midwestern American couple who are performing volunteer work in Beijing with their fellow Christian missionaries. Rather than fly home with the rest of the group, they decide to ride the rails on a seven day journey to Moscow. Roy, a train enthusiast (and genuine milquetoast) is too caught up in is hobby to notice the strange behavior of cabin mates Carlos and Abby (Eduardo Noriega and Kate Mara). Toss in a corrupt police inspector (Ben Kingsly) and add sexual tension, drugs, smuggling and a bit of torture, and you've got yourself a thriller of nearly Hitchcockian proportions. Anderson and Will Conroy's screenplay takes its time to slowly unravel the multiple layers of deception and intrigue, which is just as much about Roy and Jessie's marriage (and their past) as it is about the dangers they face while traveling across Russia. It isn't often that we find such richly developed characters in a thriller, and Anderson really shows his strength as a creator of tension, be it sexual or otherwise. There's a wonderful sense of place in the film, which subtly draws attention to details of the various villages they stop in while at the same time capturing the frustrations and limitations of being an outsider, yet Anderson does so without the self-congratulatory air of, say, The Darjeeling Limited. Though not a masterpiece by any means, Transsiberian is still a rare thing – a sharply written, emotional, intelligent thriller that is closer to Hitchcock than anything I've come across in ages. For the life of me I can't understand why this doesn't have US distribution. Maybe they should have let that guy in.