Like Anna Karina's Sweater

John Cassavetes and the Shoes of Pauline Kael

"The acting that is so bad it's embarrassing sometimes seems also to have revealed something, so we're forced to reconsider our notions of good and bad acting. . . . Faces has the kind of seriousness that a serious artist couldn't take seriously – the kind of seriousness that rejects art as lies and superficiality. And this lumpen-artists' anti-intellectualism, this actors' unformulated attack on art may be what much of the public also believes – that there is a real thing that "art" hides. . . . Faces is being taken as a religious experience. It's almost a form of self-flagellation to go to a movie like this – "to see yourself," which, of course, means to see how awful you are." – Pauline Kael, Faces "[Cassavetes] replaces the exhausted artifices of conventional movies with a new set of pseudo-realistic ones, which are mostly instantaneous clichés. As a writer-director, he's so dedicated to revealing the pain under the laughter he's a regular Pagliacci." – Pauline Kael, Husbands "The romantic view of insanity is a perfect subject for Cassavetes to muck around with. Yet even in this season when victimization is the hottest thing in the movie market this scapegoat heroine doesn't do a damn thing for him. He's always on the verge of hitting the big time, but his writing and directing are gruelling, and he swathes his popular ideas in so many wet blankets that he is taken seriously – and flops. . . . Acute discomfort sets in, and though some in the audience will once again accept what is going on as raw, anguishing truth, most people will – rightly I think – take their embarrassment as evidence of Cassavetes' self-righteous ineptitude." – Pauline Kael, A Woman Under the Influence "The way I figure it, if Pauline Kael ever liked one of my movies, I'd give up." – John Cassavetes, to Frederick Elmes Ever since that rainy Friday in 1984, when I watched a triple-bill of Shadows, Faces, and Husbands, I've been a hardcore devotee of the films of John Cassavetes. I consider him one of the greatest American directors of all time – an opinion that was further solidified last year when I finally had the opportunity to see Love Streams. However, the reasons behind my veneration have changed tremendously over the years. What grabbed me back in the 80s was just how different his films were. Their sense of immediacy combined with a seemingly 'fuck you' attitude towards Hollywood was terribly exciting. The raw, naked passion in every frame, the naturalistic acting style (or lack thereof), and the unrelenting gaze into a world I couldn't even begin to imagine – all this was nothing short of mind-blowing. But now that I've reached the age of Archie, Harry and Gus (the infernal trio from Husbands), I find myself looking at Cassavetes' films through an entirely new set of eyes. The modes of behavior seem less foreign to me, as do the intricate subtleties of the various relationships – be it between friends, lovers, spouses, or parent and child. The desperation, the loneliness and longing, the inability to communicate, and the overall tragic nature of many of his characters speaks to me in a way not possible back then. Even more telling is that I have begun to experience a certain affinity with some of them. Like many great artists, Cassavetes' work wasn't fully appreciated during his lifetime, and his relationship with film critics was tumultuous at best. For every critic that praised him, there was a Vincent Canby, John Simon, or Stanley Kauffmann ready to cut him down. Yet the harshest of all his detractors was New Yorker critic Pauline Kael, whose distaste for Cassavetes was nearly as strong as her outright dismissal of Kubrick. Louis Menand summed it up best when he wrote, "she felt that [Cassavetes' films] showed contempt for the audience's desire to be entertained." If anyone is guilty of contempt, it's Kael herself. A recent re-read of her writings on Cassavetes reveals that she spends as much time rebuking the audience as she does the film itself. That the realism in Cassavetes' films is not her liking is acceptable, but her attitude towards those genuinely moved by them is nothing short of condescending – "I think embarrassment is not a quality of art but our reaction to failed art, yet many members of the audience apparently feel that embarrassment is a sign of flinching before the painful truth, and hence they accept what is going on as deeper and truer because they have been embarrassed by it." Kael believed that the privileged financial status of the characters in Faces should have been enough to ease their pain, and feelings of emptiness. When this argument failed to console a friend shaken by the film, Kael expressed deep concern that this type of reaction, which she likened to a liberal form of a Mea culpa, could have a serious impact on the future of movies. She needn't have worried. Cassavetes was no doubt bothered by Kael's opinion of him, and his various run-ins with the esteemed critic certainly didn't help matters any. He tried to ban her from a screening of Husbands, but Ben Gazzara intervened on her behalf. In his excellent biography, Accidental Genius: How John Cassavetes Invented the American Independent Film (thanks again, Girish!), Marshall Fine relays the following anecdote, which plays like a scene from one of Cassavetes' films: Cassel recalled a taxi ride to a bar after a screening that he had been to with Cassavetes and Kael. Kael was talking about the film they'd just seen and Cassavetes looked at her with a suspicious grin. "Pauline, you don't know what you're saying," he said. Before she knew what was happening, he reached down and snatched the shoes off her feet. Even as she squawked in protest, Cassavetes hurled the shoes out the taxi window. Once they arrived at the bar, Cassavetes and Cassel chivalrously offered to carry the diminutive Kael into the bar. She walked in her stocking feet instead. An immature gesture, yes, but one that seems so in character for Cassavetes. I've always been curious if the Paulettes toed the party line on Cassavetes. As far as I know, über-Paulette Armond White hasn't reviewed any of his films, but references to Cassavetes in other reviews have always been positive. I'm not sure what Denby, Edelstein, Powers, et al. think about him. Regardless, Kael's scorn towards the films of John Cassavetes has always been a bitter pill to swallow, for she was the first critic I read religiously, and who opened my eyes to so much about cinema. But as my opinion of Cassavetes continues to grow, so does my assertion that Kael just didn't get it.

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 10, Week 3

Though she's starred in over forty films, few of you had trouble identifying the lovely Brigitte Bardot from her brief, uncredited appearance in Jean-Luc Godard's ode to the children of Marx and Coca-Cola, Masculin Féminin. I've always felt that this film, even more than À Bout de Souffle, is an excellent entry point into the world of JLG for the uninitiated. As playful as it is political, it's a perfect blend of his early "romantic" (and I use that term loosely) films and the more overtly political titles that were to follow. And those Chantal Goya songs are pure pop goodness. In a comment on last week's quiz, fellow blogger Andy Horbal inquired as to which film(s) I watched on my birthday. Well, the answer lies below. Coincidentally, this week's screen capture once again finds a man and a woman seated at a table in a restaurant. Name the film. Submit your answers to this address. Good luck!

The President's Last Bang

When word got out that the Toronto Film Festival was going to screen a film called Death of a President (early festival materials simply listed it as D.O.A.P.), a made-for-British-television faux-documentary that tells of the assassination of U.S. President Bush, right-wing pundits went berserk. "SHOCK!" was Matt Drudge's predictably monosyllabic response, which he splashed across his front page in giant red letters. Others called it "snuff cinema" or "liberal porn", while Rush Limbaugh predicted that democrats would "demand that elected politicians actually endorse the movie, at their own peril if they don't." Even so-called liberals like Hillary Clinton denounced it as "despicable...and absolutely outrageous." The thing is, had any of them actually seen the film, they would realize the whole affair is a bit of a tempest in a teacup. October 2007. George W. Bush arrives in Chicago to give a speech to an economic club — a speech that contains a veiled warning to North Korea, supposedly eighteen months away from nuclear warhead launch capability. An alarming number of protestors have taken to the city streets, and there are continual violent clashes with riot police. Later that night, Bush is assassinated, Cheney is sworn in as President (shudder), and the investigation begins. Though 300+ suspects have been taken into custody, the focus is on a Syrian-American man spotted near the scene of the crime. All we know about him is that his parents were deported after 9/11, and that he recently took a trip to the Middle East. However, this is enough for the FBI and media to run with, and it's not long before Syrian "experts" are on TV proclaiming this a state-sponsored assassination. Yet is the Syrian truly guilty, or is he merely a patsy? Though hardly the liberal porn that some believe it to be, the film's sentiments do lie somewhere left of center, and the film is openly critical of Bush-era policies and the reactionary media. Shortly after Cheney takes office (shudder again), Patriot III is passed, which further guts civil liberties and broadens the definition of terrorism. We learn that Cheney has been itching to get rid of Assad for years, and this Syrian connection is a perfect opportunity, even if the evidence against the alleged gunman is questionable at best. In other words, what we see played out in the film is a repeat of the path to the Iraqi war — speculation, shoddy evidence, and an unquestioning media all-too-eager to comply. Interestingly enough, there are no voices from the left heard in the film, nor are any positions challenged. The protesters are portrayed solely as young anarchists who, in the words of a Chicago police chief, must be dealt with forcefully. Then there's the FBI agent who openly says that looking for Arab suspects isn't racial profiling, but common sense. The closest thing to a dissenting opinion comes from a forensics expert (James Urbaniak, Henry Fool) who argues that the investigation began with a hypothesis of guilt, followed by a retrofitting of evidence. Yet (perhaps unfortunately) the film isn't an exposé of this imagined post-Bush America, which has evolved into an even greater Orwellian state, and this (ostensibly) position-less stance is a bit frustrating. This isn't Gabriel Range's first foray into the speculative documentary format — he's directed several for British television over the past few years. Yet Death of President never approaches the frighteningly real quality found in the work of Peter Watkins, who mastered the format with such groundbreaking films as The War Game and Punishment Park. Though mainly comprised of talking head interviews, the drama unfolds like an episode of CSI, and this might be the film's greatest shortcoming. We are meant to be watching a documentary about a significant event, one that had global resonance. The existence of a third act reveal shatters the illusion, for nobody watching the documentary after the fact would be unaware of the identity of the real assassin. Don't get me wrong — Range has directed an extremely well made and entertaining procedural. However, it shouldn't take an entire film to merely point out America's tendency, need, and/or desire to vilify a Middle Easterner. With a twist ending that somehow manages to be both poignant and maudlin at the same time, Death of a President can best be described as an opportunity wasted. Neither polemic nor satire, it's a film that will only offend those who refuse to see it. The decision by Regal Entertainment Group and Cinemark to ban the film outright from their cinemas says more about life in Bush's America than the film itself.

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 10, Week 2

Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in awhile, you could miss it. That was all the philosophy I needed back in 1986, the year when a boy named Ferris made out with his girlfriend (and future wife?) in front of Chagall's America Windows to the chamber-pop sounds of The Dream Academy covering one of the greatest Smiths songs of all time. It's comforting to know that many of you wanted to be Ferris as well, though one regular entrant chose Charlie Sheen (credited as Boy in Police Station) as his preferred role model from the film. I was also surprised to hear that not one but five of you attempted to reenact the scene in question, to mixed results. Ferris Bueller's Day Off is easily John Hughes' greatest film, and it hasn't lost any of its magic after all these years. Someone raised a great question -- where is Ferris today? Would he, "in mid-midlife crisis, suddenly decide to blow off work and decide to go on one last spree?" Well, we can only wonder, but seeing that today is my birthday (shameless plug), I can't think of a better way to spend the day. Now if only I can get a hold of Mia Sara. . . This week: this is one of those films where I captured no fewer than fifteen shots, and choosing one was a difficult task. I didn't want it to make it too difficult this early in the round, so I chose one that should be a dead giveaway. In which film will you find BB looking pouty in a café? Submit your answers to this address. Good luck!

2006 NYFF Wrap-up

Twenty-three films in just over two weeks, a handful of festival-related parties, and hours of conversation with critics, bloggers, festival programmers, distributors, directors, and other assorted denizens of the film world. And now it's over. In retrospect, it was a strong year, and a welcome relief from the dearth of interesting films released in the first eight months of 2006. Interestingly enough, my top three picks of the festival — Syndromes and a Century, Woman on the Beach, and Climates — all contain a bifurcated narrative structure. That two of the three are dysfucntional relationship dramas should come as no surprise to those who know me well. I've already written once about Woman on the Beach, and will do so again when the DVD comes out next month, for there's plenty more to say. Nuri Bilge Ceylan's Climates caught me by surprise and simply blew me away — not only the most beautifully shot film at the festival, but one of the greatest breakup films of all time. (I'll save my review for when the film opens in NYC later this month.) As I mentioned in an earlier post, I've had several false starts at penning a proper review of Apichatpong Weerasethakul's Syndromes and a Century, but I can say this about it — while I've certainly enjoyed watching the director's other films, I must confess that I never quite got any of them. That wasn't the case this time. The vast number of ideas burried in his city doctor/country doctor split — the reversals, variations, and contrasts — spoke to me in a series of little epiphanies that left me smiling through most of the film. The sequence that finds a woman staring down the camera until it backs off to a comfortable distance might very well be my favorite cinematic moment of the year, followed of course by the highly unexpected all-aerobicizing ending. For those interested in the music used in that scene, it's from Japanese recording artist Neil & Iraiza, and the song is called Fez (Men Working). Yes, I've uploaded a copy for you all: Neil & Iraiza - Men Working.mp3 Brief thoughts on a few other titles from the festival: The Host (Bong Joon-ho, South Korea) — Given all the praise from Cannes, I had no doubt that I would enjoy Bong's take on the monster movie. What I didn't realize was just how moving it would be as well. As with his two previous features, the police procedural Memories of Murder and the black comedy Barking Dogs Never Bite (my review here), Bong again proves himself a master of genre subversion, incorporating just enough political and social subtext to allow it to trascend convention. (Also, my vote for poster of the year. See above.) Marie Antoinette (Sophia Coppola, USA) — Who would have thought that this film would turn out to be the most contentious of the festival amongst critics? Though it was the first film screened for the press, it was the one title you heard people arguing about throughout the entire festival. I can't help but believe some of the backlash is due to the director being la fille de Francis, and not, as some critics claim, outrage at the absence of voices from the enlightened citizenry. Sure, it's full of shoe, fashion, and confectionery porn, but were we truly expecting anything else? From its opening shot of a reclining Kirsten Dunst giving a knowing wink to the camera to the familar chord triplet of Gang of Four's Natural's Not In It, it should be apparant that we're not about to get a in-depth study of 18th century class relations. It's bascially a reworking of Lost in Translation — a young married girl, trapped in a strange country, struggles to find herself. This is the cattiness and decadence of Versailles as seen through the eyes of a teenage girl. And why not? It's a bit of fun, a great soundtrack, some good performances, and not much more. The casting of Rip Torn and Asia Argento as Louis Quinze and his mistress Madame du Barry is pure genius, and the pair are contenders for sleaziest couple to ever grace the silver screen. Offside (Jafar Panahi, Iran) — It's hard not to like Panahi's overly optimistic allegorical tale of a group of young woman daring to challenge the patriarchy by sneaking in to a football match. However, it seems like a step backwards for the director whose last film, the tense, gritty, Crimson Gold, held the promise of a new direction for Panahi. Offside feels as if it was targetted specifically to the international film festival circuit, and could have easily been the followup to 1995 festival darling The White Balloon. Gardens in Autumn (Otar Iosseliani, France) — Fans of the Tbilissy-born director will find nothing terribly new in his latest absurdist romp — a political satire about a cabinet minister who in a matter of minutres goes from riches to rags — yet there's an unfamilar warmth to the film that works well with the director's trademark Tati-esque setups. Séverin Blanchet is magnificent as Vincent, the dethroned politico who wanders carefree from one situation to the next, but it is Michel Piccoli in drag as Vincent's mother who steals the show. Paprika (Satoshi Kon, Japan) — I watched all eighty-nine minutes of Kon's latest foray into anime weirdness in slack-jawed wonder. However, it was too early in the morning for me to make sense of this bit of kawaii psychedelia that finds (to mention but a few) a refrigerator, a giant frog, and the Statue of Liberty dancing down a Tokyo street. One that I'll have to see again. Our Daily Bread (Nikolaus Geyrhalter, Austria) — All I could think about while watching this documentary on food production in Europe was how nice the conditions are in the manfacturing plants, at least when compared to their American counterparts. Instead of contemplating on how and what we eat, I marveled at the precision technology, and the attention to cleanliness. (The film ends with an intense scrubbing down of a slaughterhouse.) Having been deeply disturbed by Lino Brocka's Insiang a few days prior, which opens to the amplified squeals of pigs being manually slaughtered, Geyrhalter's mechanized images in comparison left me cold. Years ago I saw Frederick Wiseman's Meat, which, like Our Daily Bread, is devoid of commentary, yet its effect is far more lasting. Geyrhalter's film seems more like an installation piece than a proper documentary, and that might very well have been his intention. Poison Friends (Emmanuel Bourdieu, France) — Much like the superb My Sex Life... or How I Got Into an Argument (which Bourdieu wrote for Arnaud Desplechin), Poison Friends is a dramedy set amongst a group of good looking young French intellectuals in nice sweaters. Though unlike Desplechin, Bourdieu is less interested in romantic entaglements than he is in intellectual machismo and blustering pomposity. It may lack emotional depth, but Bourdieu's sharply drawn characters and talented cast of relative newcomers make this a fascinating watch. A film that repeatedly name-drops Karl Kraus, it couldn't be more French if it tried. Inland Empire (David Lynch, USA) — Remember Agent Cooper's dream sequences in Twin Peaks? ("Sometimes my arms bend back.") Imagine that for three hours and you've pretty much got an idea of what to expect from Lynch's latest.  A film where every doppelgänger has an antipode, it's one that's going to keep third-year film studies students busy for years to come, even if this work plunged from the depth of Lynch's subconscious practically resists interpretation. Still, it's a must-see, if only for Laura Dern's performance (her best) and the closing credit sequence. Little Children (Todd Field, USA) — Is Little Children this year's Crash? Perhaps. For his second film, Todd Field has once again transformed a respectable piece of literature (here, Tom Perrotta's novel of the same name) into a ham-fisted bit of pretentious nonsense that treats its audience like the titular tykes. Field's perspective on suburban America is nearly as condescending as the expository narration that runs through the film (itself an indication of a weak screenplay), and his need to bestialize an already creepy child sex offender by turning him into a self-mutilating Norman Bates clone would be laughable if it wasn't so pathetic. The darkly comic tone that pervades Perotta's novel has been entirely stripped away and replaced with the overwhelming stench of Field's own Oscar-baiting self-aggrandizement. The most insulting film of 2006, I fail to understand how it got accepted into this or any other festival. Other NYFF reviews: The Queen Woman on the Beach Bamako Private Fears in Public Places The Journals of Knud Rasmussen

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 10, Week 1

Welcome to week one of the first double-digit round of Filmbrain's weekly screen capture quiz! For the newcomers, a brief rundown of the rules -- each Wednesday morning for the next twelve weeks I will be posting a screen shot from a DVD in my personal collection. If you know the film, send an email to the linked address. (Please don't post answers in the comments section.) At the end of twelve weeks the three* individuals with the highest number of correct answers can select from any DVD used in the round as a prize. Easy enough. Finally wrapping up on the NYFF screenings (just one more to go), and busy working on additional reviews for GreenCine. My favorite film of the festival, Syndromes and a Century, is proving to be an incredibly difficult film to write about. I'm tempted to simply post an MP3 of the song heard at the end of the film. That says it all, I guess. As is tradition with week one, we'll begin with an easy one. A confession: back when this film came out, I wanted nothing more than to be this guy. Name the film. Submit your answers to this address. Good luck! *As my skills at tallying have proven to be utter shite, it's very possible that more than three people will walk away with a DVD. Apologies to Michael F and Antony S (both had a perfect score) for the oversight. I shall be hiring the good people at Deloitte & Touche to handle the tabulation from now on.

NYFF Review: The Journals of Knud Rasmussen

For their second feature, filmmakers Zacharias Kunuk and Norman Cohn return once again to the frozen landscape of northern Canada, home of the Iglulik Inuit. The Journals of Knud Rasmussen, sort of an anthropological sidebar to Atanarjuat: The Fast Runner, is based on the detailed journals of the Danish explorer who, in the early 1920s, traveled across the Canadian Arctic to collect data on the social organization and intellectual culture of the Inuit communities. More importantly, he wanted to document the shamanic practices and taboos before they were converted to Christianity, which specifically forbade them from even mentioning their former beliefs. Christianity, which had already spread like a virus through the Greenland Inuit, was only beginning to stake a claim in Northern Canada when Rasmussen and his team arrived. The film covers the period that Rasmussen spent with the shaman Avva, who had fled south with his family after missionaries obtained a stronghold in their home community. Avva, a strong believer in the traditions and rituals of his people, strives to protect his family from conversion – a tradeoff that will ease their struggle for survival in an environment where food is scarce, but at a devastating cost. (So much for Christian charity.) Rasmussen, who spoke the language fluently (he was half Inuit), first met Avva in 1922 (coincidentally, the same year Robert Flaherty shot his staged documentary, Nanook of the North), and much of the text in the film comes directly from his journals. In one of the film’s lengthiest sequences, Avva describes a staggering list of rules and taboos that were put into effect after his somewhat miraculous birth, giving us a glimpse at just how much of their identity they had to sacrifice when pledging allegiance to the man on the cross. Much of the story pivots around Apak, Aava’s headstrong daughter who uses her shamanic powers to have dream-sex with her deceased husband, and who ultimately forges the family’s future path. Rebellious to a degree, she’s also the strongest character in the clan, and newcomer Leah Angutimarik is a natural talent whose performance (her screen debut) is one of quiet passion. The Journals of Knud Rasmussen is gift to the Inuit, with Kunuk giving back to his people the very words and stories that were taken from them decades earlier. That several cast members are direct descendents of Avva makes the film that much more powerful. Though the running time is half of that of The Fast Runner, there’s less of a formal narrative, and the action advances at a glacial pace. Still, this quiet, moving portrait in all of its digital beauty is one of the festival’s real treasures, and a film that finds tremendous warmth in the coldest of climates.

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 9 - The Winners!

Tallying votes late at night while struggling to crank out another NYFF review is a bad idea. If my ability to count to 13 (12 quizzes + 1 bonus point) is still intact, then it looks like we have a clear set of winners! First and second place go to Will P. and Dominic T. who both racked up a perfect score of 13. Nicely done, gentlemen! There's a two-way tie for 3rd place, and though a tiebreaker is in order, I simply can't be bothered at this late hour. So, congratulations to Corbett B. and newcomer Erin S., whose weekly emails are an absolute joy to read. Any DVD used in this round is yours for the asking. Thanks to the many of you who played -- be sure to check back next week for the start of Round 10. Update: Oops...forgot to mention that last week's quiz was none other than McCloud himself, Dennis Weaver, as the night man of the Mirador Motel in Orson Welles' Touch of Evil.