Berlinale Diary 2: OK Cyborgs, Hollywood Swedes, and a Pair of Walkers

[Extremely far behind on posting. Just got out of back to back screenings of Rivette's Ne Touchez Pas La Hache and the documentary on Wim Wenders' early years, Von Einem der Auszog. Will catch up over the weekend, hopefully.] The plan was to spend a few moments each night writing up a brief summary of the day's viewing. Yet by the time my tired body returns to the East Berlin apartment in which I'm staying, sleep is the only thing I can muster. Today (Wednesday) has been a slow day -- several productive EFM meetings followed by a screening of one of the better films I've seen at the festival -- Christian Petzold's Yella. I also saw forty minutes of what will undoubtedly go down as one of the worst films of 2007, Zack Snyder's unbelievably awful 300. In between, a pleasant lunch with critical duo Hudson and Hudson, Karsten from Rush Blogg, and Eric of Cinematical, where the topic of conversation was (obviously) what to see and what to avoid. Without hesitation, the best thing I've come across is Maria Speth's Madonnen (Madonnas), the Dardenne-esque drama that delivers in a way L'Enfant never did. Gut wrenching and tense, but directed with incredible restraint, the film tells the story of Rita, a single mother with five kids (from different fathers) and the continual bad choices she makes. Speth allows the drama to unfold without a hint of manipulation, which is all the more impressive considering the "kids in danger" element throughout. She doesn't judge Rita, she merely documents. The lead performance by Sandra Hüller is riveting. Again, one of those films I'll take the time to reflect on when the fest is over. Some brief comments on other films: I'm a Cyborg But That's OK (Park Chan-wook, Korea) -- Park Chan-wook's latest is certainly creative, original, and a grand departure from the vengeance-themed films he's been making since 2002. However, its handling and depiction of mental illness is hardly enlightened, and though the film is a sweet romantic comedy, it has at its core a young woman suffering from childhood trauma who now refuses to eat. That she believes she is a cyborg might up the cuteness factor, but I found the film on a whole to be terribly depressing. When Darkness Falls (Anders Nilsson, Sweden)-- The Swedish Crash. Seriously. This slickly-directed, beautifully shot, well-acted two-and-a-half-hours is an exercise in didacticism and god-awful screenwriting. Like Haggis' Oscar winner, Nilsson's film also weaves together multiple plot strands, though here the unifying subject is not racism, but violence as a means of intimidation. What we are taught, explicitly (and repeatedly), is that a) spousal abuse is a bad thing, b) gangsters will hurt you if you testify against them, and c) generic dark-skinned Middle-Eastern types in Sweden who habitually murder their daughters by forcing them to run back and forth across a busy highway in Germany are not Muslims, but in fact Christians. Nilsson's handling of that last thread is both smarmy and insulting -- he never identifies the culture these people belong to (rendering them simply "not-Swedish"), and you can practically hear him saying "Gotcha!" as he tosses out that final reel reveal. It's a cheap trick with racist overtones. When Darkness Falls is pure 21st century Hollywood bullshit, and it wouldn't surprise me if Nilsson one day remakes the film in the US with an A-list cast. Scott Walker: 30 Century Man (Stephen Kijak, US/UK) --  Aaron and I strongly disagreed on this one. I found it to be a more than satisfactory portrait of the man and his music, while Aaron felt it was more like a primer, best suited for those unfamiliar with his work. In retrospect, I think he's correct, but as a longtime fan I still found it fascinating to hear Walker speak about his career, as well as his methods and approach to composition. The choice of talking heads (including Jarvis Cocker, Hector Zazou, David Bowie and Johnny Marr) is inspired -- instead of empty accolades, nearly all of them have something substantial to offer. Scenes of the interviewees listening to and commenting on various Walker songs are among the film's finest, and most candid, moments. Walker himself comes across as an extremely eloquent (albeit camera shy) perfectionist who is tremendously dedicated to his art. Don't miss this one. The Walker (Paul Schrader, US) -- Seeing that he's president of this year's Berlinale jury, it's my guess that the festival felt obligated to screen the director's latest film, a slight but somewhat serviceable quasi-political thriller set in the nation's capital. Woody Harrelson stars at Carter Page III, an effete fop who escorts bored, wealthy DC society ladies to parties, cultural events or canasta games. He's a modern-day Truman Capote -- always ready with a bon mot, anecdote, or appropriate quote from Tennessee Williams. His southern gentleman accent is pure Scarlett O'Hara, and his wardrobe would make Oscar Wilde proud. After getting mixed up in a murder investigation, Carter becomes an easy target for right-wingers who are more than eager to bring down the notorious homosexual on a perjury charge. Given recent events in Washington, Schrader is presented with a terrific opportunity to expose hypocritical attitudes towards homosexuality, yet chooses to keep his political criticisms at arm's length. There are references to Iraq, and the Vice President is somehow tied to the murder, but it's all rather superficial. Lauren Bacall, Kirstin Scott Thomas, and Lily Tomlin are quite good as the ladies who lunch, but overall the film feels too much like a made-for-TV affair. The Walker is Schrader at his safest, and mellowest. Finally, a few words about 300, mostly to come to the defense of Erik Davis, who is taking quite a beating for his negative review. Remember that scene in David Lynch's Dune where Sting, at his overacting worst, screams "I will kill him!"? Now imagine a film where every single line is uttered with the same bombastic fervor, whether deserved or not. This is what 300 delivers, and ridiculous doesn't begin to describe it. With laughable attempts at Shakespearian dialog, this is a film that will appeal only to adolescent fanboys or enthusiasts of greased, half-naked men fighting each other. Forty minutes was all I could manage. 300 might just be the new Showgirls