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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. . .