Like Anna Karina's Sweater

Tribeca Report: Of Stranded Socialists, Sad Skinheads, and Stuffed Hungarians

Along with an elevated pollen count, spring also heralds the annual arrival of the Tribeca Film Festival; those weeks in May where Manhattan lampposts decked out in brightly colored promotional banners compete with the blossoming magnolia and cherry trees to dot the post-winter cityscape with a splash of color. I've yet to come across any of the American Express free popcorn stands, but other festival festoonery has been spotted in various locations around the city. Once again the festival is taking great measures to make its presence known, and the planned weeklong event centered around Spiderman III makes last year's Tom Cruise multi-means-of-transport dash through Manhattan look like amateur hour. I haven't been bothered to read all the details, but I believe it includes non-stop blanket screenings of the "most expensive film ever made" projected into the night sky for the enjoyment of all New Yorkers. That Target has signed on as a signature sponsor of the festival makes this exercise in crass commercialism hardly surprising. (Don't even get me started on the ESPN-sponsored sidebar of sports-related films.) Yes, I'll admit to being both a crank and an elitist snob. Why, you may ask, shouldn't there be room in a festival for the likes of both Jia Zhangke and (sigh) Adam Carolla. Maybe it's the fact that Cannes is right around the corner (and I'm not going!), or simply a result of an extreme case of hay fever, but each year I find myself wondering why the TFF isn't quite like its brethren in Berlin, London, San Francisco, Pusan, etc. If pressed to choose one thing, I'd lay the blame at the festival's emphasis on world premieres. I'm sure there are many New Yorkers who would prefer a critically acclaimed "leftover" to an unknown, possibly awful, premiere. (Especially when ticket prices have gone up by 50%.) Still, buried between the Hollywood tripe and yet another Ed Burns film, there are some gems to be found at this year's festival, and I've been lucky enough to catch three of them so far.

1959's The Letter That Was Never Sent is one of two restored classics at this year's fest lensed by Russian master Sergei Urusevsky (the other being Grigori Chukhrai's The Forty-First.) One of four films that Urusevsky made with director Mikhail Kalatozov, it's sandwiched between 1957's The Cranes Are Flying and 1964's I Am Cuba. While nowhere near as powerful as either of those films, The Letter That Was Never Sent is an absolute must see for lovers of dramatic cinematography. The paper-thin plot revolves around four geologists, three men and one woman, who are sent to Siberia to search for a diamond mine. Driven not by dreams of personal wealth but rather for make benefit glorious nation of Russia, they drink a toast to the future funding of the space-race, and other examples of socialist pride. Though we do get a bit of backstory on all of the characters, and there are hints at sexual tension between alpha-male Sergei and the married Tanya, it's little more than a red-herring, for the bulk of the film finds the quartet fighting for survival after they are driven deep into the Siberian wilderness by an unexpected forest blaze. As the Siberian summer quickly turns to winter and the number of survivors thins, we learn of not one but several letters that remain unsent, as well as a thing or two about personal sacrifice for a greater good. Urusevsky's cinematography lends itself perfectly to this tale of man vs. nature, and visually there isn't a dull moment. It's been said the film influenced both the look of Tarkovsky's Stalker and Coppola's Apocalypse Now, and there are indeed elements here that can be found in both of those films. Urusevsky's camera is extremely fluid – from the opening shot taken from the back of an unseen helicopter as it rises upward, to the liberal use of hand-held shots as the group traipses through reeds and woods – there are scant few moments of stillness. Though not shot from a character's POV, the camera, at times, mimics the action we witness – swinging violently around when somebody is punched, or rapidly jerking up and down to the motion of an arm swinging a pickaxe. Though Urusevsky employs all sorts of Dutch and low angle shots, as well a handful of slow dissolves, they never feel overstated or overused, as they often can (and do) in lesser films. This new print from the Moscow film archives looks positively wonderful, and deserves to be seen on the big screen.

Shane Meadows' This is England is a strong contender to replace Alan Clarke's 1982 Made in Britain as the definitive British skinhead film. Set in 1983, this semi-autobiographical tale tells of Sean (Thomas Turgoose), a tween whose father was killed in the Falklands War, and his relationship with a group of skinheads several years his senior. The film works brilliantly as both personal coming-of-age story and searing unrestrained portrait of life in Thatcher's Britain. Like Meadows himself was at that age, Sean is an outsider taken under the wing of a kind skinhead named Woody (Joseph Gilgun), whose gang is content to sit around, drink beer, get high, and listen to Ska. Trading in his ratty sweaters and flared jeans for Doc Martens, suspenders, and Ben Sherman shirt (not to mention a freshly shaved head), things begin to look up for the troubled Sean until the arrival of Combo (Stephen Graham), just back from a stint in prison and full of racial hatred and nationalist pride. Though Combo's sudden reappearance threatens to shatter the bliss of Sean's surrogate family, the impressionable boy can't help but fall under the spell of the charismatic racist, who plays into Sean's anger at losing his dad in a senseless war. It's not long before Sean starts attending National Front meetings and intimidating immigrants along with his new neo-Nazi pals. What separates This is England from other similarly themed films is Meadows' refusal to reduce matters to simply right versus wrong, or left versus right. He reminds us that the skinhead movement was traditionally multi-culti, where working-class English and West Indian kids bonded over Jamaican artists such as Toots and the Maytals and The Upsetters. Mass unemployment under Thatcher resulted in the working-class feeling threatened, which gave rise to the racist attitudes one often associates with skinheads. Combo's politics may be abhorrent, but Meadows takes great pains to show how his character is not necessarily a victim, but a product of the Thatcher era, a divisive time to say the least. Unlike the typical one-dimensional skinhead we've seen countless times before, Meadows exposes a few cracks in the facade, revealing a complexity of contradictions that shuns a simple vilification of the character. Looking like a pint-sized Winston Churchill (and commanding a similar presence) Thomas Turgoose is remarkable as Sean, and there's no doubt his own troubled childhood informs much of his performance. As Combo, Stephen Graham makes a strong case for entry into the pantheon of great modern English actors, and his performance ranks up there with the best from Tim Roth, David Thewlis, or Ray Winstone. My only gripe with the film is the third act, where an event leads to an epiphany in a way that feels a bit forced, or at least too conventional when compared to everything that preceded it, creating a moral center that isn't really necessary. Even so, the film's strengths are such that this minor contrivance doesn't diminish its power. With its unmistakable allusion to The 400 Blows, This is England is a superb coming-of-age drama that is probably the greatest English film since Mike Leigh's Naked.

Though I'd be hard pressed to qualify this statement, it's my belief that Hungarian director György Pálfi is some sort of genius. How else to explain his uncanny ability to present acts so utterly repulsive, yet with the poignancy of a philosopher? Imagine if Slavoj Žižek directed a film for Troma – that's just a hint of what you can expect from Taxidermia. Pálfi's second feature is a triptych that traces a single family over three generations of men, each with a particular quirk, to put it lightly. Morosgoványi is a masturbating voyeur who does odd things with fire and performs unnatural acts on a dead animal. His son Kalman is a champion speed-eater, the pride of Hungary who is eagerly awaiting the IOC to accept it as an Olympic sport. His twig-thin son Lajoska is a modern-day taxidermist who spends most of his time caring for his father, now an immovable colossus, while fattening cats with bricks of margarine. The obsession with the body, and the excesses it can sustain, are reminiscent of the works of David Cronenberg, though there's an added cynicism here that borders on misanthropy. Pálfi doesn't think too highly of humankind, but his films come off as more playful than vitriolic. That's not to say they're easy to watch – especially with food or drink in front of you – but there's still something poetic in his disgusting images. Taxidermia is a fascinating treatise on excess, desire, and the politics of the body. It contains images that aren't easily forgotten, though it's a film that almost begs multiple viewings. Don't miss this one.

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 12, Week 3

After the disappointment that was Death Proof, it was interesting to go back and look at QT's debut, Reservoir Dogs. Back then, of course, Tarantino was banking on the fact that you hadn't seen Ringo Lam's City on Fire, which has Chow Yun-Fat playing an undercover cop who infiltrates a gang planning a jewelry store heist. Oh yes, it also happens to end in a Mexican standoff. Theft or tribute? You decide. Regardless, points to Tarantino for what he did with Stealer's Wheel Stuck in the Middle With You. It's impossible to hear that song and not think of a severed ear. You may have noticed a bit of a slowdown at Like Anna Karina's Sweater lately. It has nothing to do with a lack of motivation, or a dearth of content to blog about, but rather the ever-growing list of tasks associated with Benten's first DVD release, and that's without considering the roadblocks we've encountered along the way. On top of that is the arrival of the behemoth that is the Tribeca Film Festival, which I'm hoping to offer some coverage of in coming days. I've conditioned my body to get by on five hours sleep. If only I could get that down to four... This week.....talk about a stone cold fox! In which film will you find this Vulpes vulpes? Name the film. Submit your answers to this address. Good luck!

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 12, Week 2

And the David Lynch connections don't stop! It didn't even strike me as I was creating the alt-text text clue that Richard Beymer, who played Peter Van Daan in George Stevens' The Diary of Anne Frank, starred as Benjamin Horne on Twin Peaks. Millie Perkins, best known (to me at least) for her work in several Monte Hellman films, was briefly married to Dean Stockwell who played a different Ben in Blue Velvet. There were quite a few submissions of Splendor in the Grass, and I guess Diane Baker and Beymer do bear a passing resemblance to Natalie Wood and Warren Beatty, though I thought Millie Perkins would have made it a dead giveaway. Critics at the time were split on young Millie's performance (her screen debut), and, watching the film again, I do think she plays it a bit large, especially in contrast to the rest of the cast (including Shelley Winters, Lou Jacobi, and Joseph Schildkraut) who are magnificent. The anecdote I referred to comes from David Mamet's latest rage against the (Hollywood) machine, Bambi vs. Godzilla, and it revolves around the scene where Peter's cat is walking along a counter ledge while the Nazis are just one floor below. The cat sticks its head into a funnel, and pushes it towards the edge of the counter. If the funnel drops, the Nazis will surely discover their hiding place in the attic. The cat does push the funnel over the ledge, but doesn't fall because his head is stuck in it. The cat then backs up and manages to remove the funnel without it falling on the floor. Mamet spent a sleepless night wondering how they achieved this effect. Wires? Glue? Electromagnets? ?mlif eht gnisreveR Mamet works his way through a handful of possible solutions, none of which produces a satisfactory explanation. A phone call to the director's son, George Stevens Jr., reveals the answer which Mamet describes as a head-slapping moment. (Read the book to learn the secret of that darn cat.) This week's film is somewhat of an obvious choice, I guess, but I couldn't resist. Name the film. Submit your answers to this address. Good luck!

Aging SWM director seeks kickass F, great feet a must

"A tall (maybe 6ft) Amazonian Mulatto goddess walks down her hallway, dressed in a baby tee, and panties that her big ass (a good thing) spill out of, and her long legs grow out of. Her big bare feet slap on the hard wood floor. She moves to the cool rockabilly beat as she paces like a tiger putting on her clothes." – Death Proof screenplay, final draft 2/14/06 It was about halfway through Death Proof that I found myself wondering – why exactly did an overwhelming number of critics shower Grindhouse with heaps of praise? Re-reading a handful of reviews, I realized that there was very little in the way of critical analysis of either Tarantino’s Death Proof or Rodriguez’s Planet Terror. More often that not the approach was form over content – from the basic premise of two directors paying homage to bad cinema, to the (now-questionable) decision to pair the two films into a 191-minute double feature. Grindhouse afforded critics the opportunity to wax nostalgic about their own experiences with sticky floors and bad popcorn, while at the same time legitimizing their admiration for cinematic schlock. It's a shame few took a closer look at the actual films contained within. It was at the end of Death Proof that I came to the following conclusion – Quentin Tarantino needs a girlfriend. "A dateless wonder is a guy who thinks about girls alot but doesn't have much social skills. So he doesn't go out alot. But he's not like his geeky friends, or his fat friends, or his confused sexualitys friends, he goes out... every once in a while. Every once in a while he gets the balls to ask a girl out. Now dateless wonders usually make it a point to ask girls out of their league. Since they don't expect to get the date anyway, why not aim high. And every once in a while, they get their shit together long enough to be charming enough, to get a pretty girl to say yes. And you're that pretty girl." – Arlene, Death Proof screenplay, final draft 2/14/06 It’s one thing for Quentin to present us with a bunch of middle-aged guys sitting around a table, hanging out in a hotel room, or driving around in a car engaging in lengthy dialog liberally seasoned with pop-culture references – everything from Like a Virgin, fast food menus, Kung Fu, The Man From Rio, or AM radio hits. These are Tarantino’s geeky obsessions writ large. Yet in Death Proof, black suited guys are replaced by hotties in baby tees and tight pants, and the results come off as little more than male geek fantasy – gorgeous young women sitting around dropping references to Zatoichi, obscure British rock bands, and 70s cult cinema. It’s unbelievably juvenile, and more than a little pathetic. [NB: Spoilers follow.] Simply stated, Tarantino can't write dialog for women to save his life. Listening to the palaver of the two disparate groups of women in the film – be it about making out or muscle cars – you'd think the screenwriter had never actually spent time with women. This isn't Quentin trying to write intentionally bad dialog, à la The Cheerleaders – the style is identical to that of his earlier films, except that unlike the nameless hoods of Reservoir Dogs, or the multitude of characters in Pulp Fiction, the women in Death Proof aren't characters at all, they're merely character types;  agents for Tarantino's excursions into violence and vengeance. In past films, even minor characters (Gogo Yubari, Honey Bunny) had a certain three-dimensional quality to them. None of that is to be found here. (Unless of course you consider liberal use of "Nigga' please" as character defining.) Several of the lengthy dialog scenes go absolutely nowhere, fizzle out, or are otherwise pointless. For example, Kim and Zoe's story about the ditch in Thailand – neither funny, revealing, nor particularly interesting, its function (as far as I can tell) is simply to prepare us for Zoe's miraculous survival later in the film. Where's the payoff we've come to expect from such setups? I don't agree with those who labeled Death Proof misogynistic – Quentin doesn't hate women, but I do find his particular brand of feminism somewhat questionable. To wit: it's perfectly acceptable to terrorize and brutally kill one group of women as long as another steps in to kick some ass. However, looking at the dynamics he created for the two groups says quite a bit. Jungle Julia, Butterfly & Co. are hedonists – they lounge around, get high, and spend their nights getting drunk in dive bars – and die horrible deaths. Abernathy, Zoe, Kim and Lee are all professionals, and in the movie industry no less. On top of than that, we learn that Abernathy (Rosario Dawson) is a mom, a fact unnecessary to the plot, but of major importance to the fatherless director (cf. Kill Bill). The actress, stuntwomen, and makeup artist hang out in coffee shops and discuss Vanishing Point, while the others dance in bars and give lap dances. Is Tarantino passing moral judgment with this obvious good girl/bad girl dichotomy? Check out this bit of descriptive text from the screenplay: "Jungle Julia, pint of beer in one hand and lit cigarette in the other, does a very sexy dance to the bluesy rock classic. For the audience in Huck's, as well as the movie theatre she's putting on a one-ho-show." This is followed by bartender Warren (Tarantino himself) threatening to hit her "upside the head with a horse cock" if she doesn't put out her cigarette. Am I alone in finding it embarrassing that a 44 year-old white director feels the need to use the expression one-ho-show? And is it even necessary? I'm also not entirely comfortable with Tarantino's handling of Lee (Mary Elizabeth Winstead), the John Hughes-loving actress in the cheerleader outfit (labeled Vipers, natch) who is left behind by her friends as rape bait for hillbilly Jasper (Jonathan Loughran, who played the would-be rapist of comatose Uma Thurman in Kill Bill.) It's a bit of nastiness that, while closer in spirit to a genuine grindhouse film, doesn't quite work with everything leading up to it. It's inconsistent, which ultimately is my biggest complaint with the film. Now I'm sure some will no doubt be saying, "But it's meant to be offensive/sexist, it's a grindhouse film!" Except....it's not. Death Proof is too self-congratulatory and self-aware to work as either pure exploitation or even homage – in fact, it's Tarantino paying tribute to Tarantino more than anything else. He seems unable to distance himself from his auteurist self in order to create something worthy of the grindhouse moniker. It's more adolescent than sleazy, and lacks the salaciousness of, say, a Russ Meyer film, whose unique flavor of girl power Tarantino co-opted. Too self-satisfied with the characters he created, he lacks the conviction to gaze upon them the way Meyer did. What we're left with is neither fish nor fowl; too conscious of itself to adhere to the genre, but not clever enough to subvert it. Interestingly enough, the films Death Proof directly references – Vanishing Point and Dirty Mary Crazy Larry – are not even grindhouse films, they're both straight-up 20th Century Fox releases. Rather than tossing $60 million in their direction, the Weinstein's should have given Tarantino and Rodriguez each $100,000, a limited crew, and an aggressively tight shooting schedule – maybe then we'd see something resembling those cheesy B-pictures we secretly adore. Regardless, Quentin Tarantino needs to find a new source of inspiration that informs his screenwriting. Like a hyperactive child, his desire to share his encyclopedic knowledge of cult and fringe cinema has gone from supplementing and enhancing his cleverly written screenplays to becoming the sole purpose for their existence. Yes, Quentin, we know you've seen every Chia-liang Lu and William Rotsler film. Time to move on.

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 12, Week 1

Well, here we are at the start of the twelfth round of Filmbrain's weekly screen capture quiz. Unlike the last, all-musical round, this time we're strictly theme-less. Just twelve films from my collection over the next twelve weeks. I'm hoping to avoid any overlaps with previous rounds, but I can't make any guarantees.... The rules are the same as always. A  new quiz goes up every Wednesday morning, and answers can be submitted up until the morning the following quiz appears. Top three scorers at the end of the twelve weeks can pick any film used in the round as a prize. Answers are to be submitted by email only, not in the comments section. There have been quite a few requests for more chances at bonus points, so I'll try to add a few more during the round. For the first week, we'll keep it simple. David Mamet tells a wonderful anecdote about this film in his latest book, Bambi vs. Godzilla, which, I guess, was the inspiration for my using it. Name the film. Submit your answers to this address. Good luck!

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 11, The Winners!

George Marshall was certainly no stranger to the Western genre, but his 1954 musical Red Garters is a bit of a dud. Visually it's a stunner, and its brightly colored soundstages and obvious architectural artifice are fascinating to behold, but it never rises above its stylistic conceit. Songs like With a Whoop and a Holler and a Dime and a Dollar or The Robin Randall Song never became standards, and it's not difficult to see why. Lead actress Rosemary Clooney does give it her all, and it's her performance that makes the film tolerable. (Well, that and the chance to gaze at the gorgeous Pat Crowley). As for the connection to Twin Peaks (the second season of which just happened to come out on DVD yesterday - huzzah!) in two hops or less, it's very simple: Rosemary Clooney (George Clooney's aunt) is the mother of Miguel Ferrer, who played gruff but loveable FBI agent Albert Rosenfield on the groundbreaking series. Some of the routes suggested were indeed clever (Clooney to Stephen Tobolowski to Lara Flynn Boyle...) but the only other one to meet the two hops or less requirement was Rosemary Clooney starring with Russ Tamblyn in Deep in My Heart. (Nice one Mike!) And with this a dozen weeks of celluloid song and dance comes to an end. Congratulations to all who participated, especially the many first-time entrants. The average score was an impressive 9, though only the following three individuals managed to score a perfect 13 (12 weeks + the bonus question): Mike F, JK M, and Dominic T. Well done! As usual, any DVD used in this round is yours for the asking. (That new release of All That Jazz looks pretty sweet, by the way.) Be sure to check back next week for the start of Round 13, which is guaranteed to be musical-free!