"He began our friendship with a gift. And later, he gave me another. A wonderful gift. A glimpse of the world through God's eyes. And I thought to myself, 'Yes. This is what was intended.'" (excerpt from Out of Africa)
Sydney Pollack brought an absolutely unique touch to his pictures, an odd sense of a moment's honesty that I never felt with another filmmaker. I didn't enjoy all of Pollack's movies because of muddy and muddled storytelling, at least from my mildly educated perspective. However, I give him as much kudos for making me want to be a filmmaker as Oliver Stone, Stanley Kubrick, Ingmar Bergman and Martin Scorsese. He had an incredible sense of which films to make and when. I just wish he worked with better writers more often. Because when he did it was fucking gold.
Thank you Sydney for your inspiration. Thank you for Horses, Africa, Condor, and Tootsie. Thank you for one my favorite openings in any film and one of my favorite line deliveries in any film and favorite uses of music in any film. I wish I could have worked for you for just a day. I'll see you on the other side.
FADE IN:
EXT. PEARLY GATES - DAY
SYDNEY, a bright-eyed, bushy-haired gent of 73, approaches. ST. PETER stands at the gates backlit. A beautiful gleaming mass of energy bursting with orange and vanilla soda clouds swims behind his figure.
ST. PETER Welcome, my son. Have you earned your wings?
SYDNEY Wait a second. What's wrong with this picture?
ST. PETER Of what picture do you speak?
SYDNEY Well, let's start with this one. Time is time.
ST. PETER looks beffudled but maintains a caring smile.
SYDNEY (CONT.) First off, you should have a halo light. Where's Robert Richardson when you need him.
ST. PETER But I do have a halo, my son?
SYDNEY
Oh, stop being so literal. This scene was built on extended metaphor. We should try using it.
ST. PETER
Whatever for?
SYDNEY
You see now that's funny. I should use that. Script! (beat) Where's the script girl?
ST. PETER
My dear, Mr. Pollack. Let me ask you something. Do you know where you are?
SYDNEY looks around and clears some fog off his glasses.
SYDNEY
(reaching for cell phone)
This is Stage 37, is it not? My remake of Heaven Can Wait?
ST. PETER
I'm afraid not, dear one. But you do bring up an interesting point. Heaven can wait if you feel you haven't earned your wings.
Sydney has his epiphany, removes a hankie from his jump suit and blows his nose.
SYDNEY
Does producing, directing and acting in some of the most influential films of the last quarter century qualify me?
ST. PETER
I'm afraid that card was used up with Mr. Welles. You can do better.
SYDNEY
My agent kept saying the same thing.
ST. PETER
If you promise not to tell anyone, I'll let you in on a little secret.
SYDNEY
I made it 40 years in Hollywood without gossiping; I think I can manage.
ST. PETER looks over both wings.
ST. PETER
(whispering)
"They Shoot Horses, Don't They?" is on His Top 10 of all time.
ST. PETER hooks his thumb back towards the light which has morphed into fruit blossoms of purple and blue.
SYDNEY
Really? More than Africa? Hmmm.
ST. PETER
Well, Mozart got most of the credit for that one up here. (beat) But, my son, despite these achievements, I will need a valuable reason before granting your access.
SYDNEY looks at his tennis shoes and harumphs.
ST. PETER
I'm sorry, Mr. Pollack. "Harumph" is not an acceptable answer.
ST. PETER pulls a clipboard from behind his left wing.
ST. PETER (CONT.)
I will put you on the waiting list. In 43 million years let's hope you've come up with a more appropriate reason to be granted access to the Holiest of Holies.
Sydney breaks out in a sweat.
SYDNEY
But-
ST. PETER
Ciao for now, Mr. Pollack.
As ST. PETER raises his fist, a huge commotion comes from the now blood red clouds which are splashing around. The cloud/blood waves part in two. A figure walks forward through them.
ST. PETER rolls his eyes. SYDNEY squints with his.
The figure comes closer.
SYDNEY
Stanley?
STANLEY KUBRICK marches forth with a restrained but powerful gusto. While passing ST. PETER, STANLEY flicks his ear.
STANLEY
(to St. Peter) The man made it to Take 87 under my wing, Petey, he should be able to make it past yours.
STANLEY takes SYDNEY by the hand and leads him back towards
the backdrop, which is now two giant open elevator doors.
ST. PETER
Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. Won't happen again.
SYDNEY gives STANLEY a long, hard stare.
STANLEY
(cupping his hand over his mouth) Winning 3 chess games out 5 with the big guy gets you carte blanche in this place. Now will you let me teach you properly?
Last December I was sitting on a bar stool in Hippodrome, sweating bullets because the 2007 Invizible Dirty Circus show was about to begin. I had assembled a three camera shoot with weeks of planning and a cash in of favors. My least favorite punk band, The Last Minute Fuckups, were playing full-blast at a Dubly 11. The sound board feed sucked and the light design was the least video friendly imaginable. Our beloved Peach was in the hospital. The opening montage I had produced was not going to be shown as planned.
15 minutes to go before showtime. All problems would remain problems.
Up strolls Reed McClintock with his signature swagger and charm. A mix of Jimmy Stewart and Cary Grant that would rewrite The Philadelphia Story.
I had seen Reed perform his magic 5 or 6 times at Sinferno and was blown away like everyone else. But what I liked most about him was that he was what I call a "sweetheart." An artist with powerful skill who maintains a genuinely kind demeanor.
So Reed sits next to me, and I knew the question on the tip of his tongue before it flew. For the first and last time, I had the jump on Reed McClintock. As the vowels and consonants formed, my mind was desperately conjuring polite ways to say No.
Don't get me wrong. Having a world-renowned magician asking you to do a promo on him is an honor. But what the fuck did I know about magic?! And I'm now 10 minutes from definitive disaster. Fuck off, pal!
But Reed being a Jedi as well as an illusionist morphed the "sorry I can't" swirling in the gulliver into "I'd love to."
Three months later I had over three hours of footage to be trimmed to five or six minutes and little idea how to do it.
The vanilla cloud hovering like a temptress was a reoccuring statement Reed made over those months. He would say that his magic wasn't about how great he was, it was about helping the audience realize how great they were.
I love that. And it is an absolute privilege to help someone with that kind of mentality move forward on his or her journey.
Thank you to Noah and Jaime for their interviews and enthusiasm. A big kiss to Nolon whose Cult of Zir track at the start of the piece was a lovely source of inspiration. Also an enormous hug to Betsy, who I regretably don't know personally, whose completely natural reactions to Reed's table work at Dante's perfectly illustrated the whole shebop.
On August 7th, 2004 I went to OHM to see the Xploding Boys play. As I was getting stamped, the voice and music of the opening act hit me like a wave. A gorgeous tenor voice and a piano melody from the golden vaults. I remember my exact words to the door guy: Who the fuck is that?
"That's a local guy named Bryan Free." "He's amazing. He's as good as Ben Folds." "No," he replied, "you haven't heard him yet. He's better than Ben Folds."
For the next 30 or so minutes, I sat on one of those weird stools they have at OHM and let this heavenly creature wash over me. After the show, I bought a CD and asked him to sign it. Not a first for me; I've had CDs and set lists and posters signed for me for years. However, as opposed to his predecessors who obliged and moved on, Bryan Free started a conversation. A non-stock, thoroughly interested exchange.
I listened to Bryan's album and fell in love. The honesty and melancholy and embrace were keynotes for my loving a musician. One month later I drove up to Seattle to see him play a coffee house. Aside from myself and the staff, the audience was 1. Before he played, I asked if I could start filming a documentary about him. I was on a DIG! high and wanted to follow someone I believed in in the hopes of finding a hook. Bryan agreed conditionally and for the next two years I attended and shot almost every show, a handful of interviews, and a music video.
Over the course of those two years I saw a rowdy sports bar completely silenced during a performance of "Love and Success", a visitor from New York conference calling five of his friends and holding up his cell during a show at Tonic, a solo artist build to a five-piece ensemble (known as the Doxyhaunts), an act spread from single attendee coffee houses to packed venues, and a wonderful treasured friendship evolve.
About a year ago I realized the project was kaput. I couldn't find anything objective to say. Bryan was just an out-n-out musician. No interest in money; less than zero interest in fame. Bryan, who was way Way WAY past the "aw-shucks, I'm just a musician territory", was the real deal and only an enemy would push for something to exploit.
So, I'd like to share something with you. The following is the demo I assembled for the documentary in 2005. The last Bryan Free show I went to was the first where I realized I had zero interest in capturing it on any other form than my memory. A Bryan Free show is a visit with a loved one, perhaps one past. A Bryan Free show is an intimate exchange with pure love. After 16 years of video production, I still don't know how to capture that, and I don't think I want to either.
Some things shouldn't have a file extension anywhere near it.
Favorite Films of 2007: Everything You Wanted to Know About Iraq But Were Afraid to Ask By Sean Strauss
1. There Will Be Blood (Dir. P.T. Anderson) The reflective descriptives spewed from my burning gums for hours post show, each one a descendant of the fatherland; from feeling drenched in viscous crude to eating animals raw, and I have yet to nail down a one-rig gusher explaining why this film is the best of this year and several gone by. It is difficult to praise a piece of art that is so intensely grounded in the most disgusting shades of human behavior and the results of such. Nevertheless, the darkest of the Shakespearean and Greek Tragedies mixed with bereft current affairs pave the black and bloody preparation path to this firetale of greed, capitalism, misanthropy, cruelty, deception, betrayal, desperation, and brutality.
Daniel Day-Lewis's performance will be talked about from dinner table to igloo, studied in acting classes across the Golden Globe, and remain front-runner in the cineaste's spank bank for the rest of time. If you thought Bill the Butcher was terrifying, as they say, you ain't seen nothin' yet. When a character's first and last act of "compassion" is to spike an infant's milk with whiskey, imagine how sinister that person will be 130 minutes later.
Before I scare you off, let me address that There Will Be Blood is not in the vein of a Todd Solondz (Happiness) or Gaspar Noe (I Stand Alone) film. Solondz and Noe set out to reveal the ugliness of human behavior with no other impetus. Paul Thomas Anderson starts with that and hefts it over a Mt. Doom landscape of extended metaphor and cautionary tale as Penderecki and a Bernard Hermann-influenced Jonny Greenwood glide their talons across your cerebral cortex. Anderson has addressed the idiosyncratic black angels in each of his films, usually through the ticks and tact of Philip Seymour Hoffman, but never before has Anderson said so much within his frame, even when the canvas is empty.
I will reveal nothing else. But please allow me one more superlative: The last scene of this film (about 10 minutes in length) is the best theatrical filmmaking I have ever seen.
2. No Country For Old Men (Dir. Joel & Ethan Coen) Relieved I am to experience the Brothers Coen as I remember them way back when: better than their best with a twist of untouchable. The first viewing of No Country left me dumbfounded and uncomfortably blanketed in something, but when that something turned into devil-smirking muscle relaxant and commenced to incinerate my flesh, I knew I had experienced a thunderstorm of sublime subliminal. Or in this case, "subliminable."
Cormac McCarthy wrote the book for No Country in 2005, but the setting is 1980 West Texas. The protagonists are Vietnam veterans and the tone is as morally bankrupt as its landscapes are lonesome. However, unlike There Will Be Blood, No Country allows a half-shade of hope by having the weathered Tommy Lee Jones as the childless Sheriff (Grandfather), hunched in his horse saddle/police cruiser/diner chair, gravel-voiced and suffering from incurable weltzschmertz. At least he acknowledges there's a problem, even though apathy is just around the desert mountain.
Everything you've heard about Javier Bardem's performance is true. From the "never had sex" haircut to the whiter shade of Hell skin tone, Bardem blasts away with whispers from his carefree cattle gun and existential pie hole.
The big plot twist, more specifically how the scene was shot, that has most people scratching their noggins is the centerpiece for the most faithful adaptation I have been witness to. (If only I could have seen the executives wetting their pants at test screenings.) In fact, Brother Ethan stated that said scene was the drive to make it into a film. I declare that man is a sadistic little rascal.
Crudely put, the film rocks, especially the film's photography, courtesy of Roger Deakins, who brings simplicity to Sistine extravagance. And to Senors McCarthy, Joel & Ethan, who snatched a misconstrued cat-and-mouse and used that frame to explore the long and confusing Pursuit Trailed by Sociopathic Demons.
3) Into the Wild (Dir. Sean Penn) Whether you find Christopher McCandleless's actions petulantly selfish or righteously romantic, he stuck to his guns (or books, in this case) and reveled in the ride until his pillars of Truth and Nature grew too tall to control. Sean Penn was the perfect director to bring this story to the screen, having ditched his life of Hollywood luxury for two years to live in a trailer on the outskirts of 101. And having Eddie Vedder compose the engaging songs works on a level of Nativity.
For those (allow me a conundrum) not in the dark, a 1990 Emory honors graduate gave $25,000 to Oxfam International (ironically to feed the hungry), destroyed his ID and loose cash, and hit the road with little more than rice, Thoreau, and the pseudonym Alexander Supertramp. Over the next two years, he worked the grain fields in South Dakota, kayaked the Colorado River (the entire Colorado River), influenced the lives of almost everyone he came across, and eventually reached his ultimate goal: the Alaskan Frontier. The family he ditched never stopped looking for him until his 67-pound remains were discovered in a transit car that McCandless had lived in for four months.
As the saying goes, it's in the journey, not the reward. McCandless's travels are inspiring to the soul, beautiful to the eye, educational to the intellect's hunger, and romantic to the fearful. I wish I could have met him, not to dissuade him from perish, which would have been blatantly useless, but to give him a hug, wish him luck, and encourage him to write his family.
4. The Wind That Shakes the Barley (Dir. Ken Loach) I can occasionally write some decent prose, but I dare not attempt anything more than a few sentences for this most important of films about IRA inner struggle in the early 1920s. I saw this film last February but just thinking about it turns the faucet handle. And the Irish in me says knock it the fuck off, lad; you don't deserve to cry. Continuing what Paul Greengrass did with Bloody Sunday, Ken Loach shows that British filmmakers are not ashamed to apologize for their country's actions and explore why violence, even in the name of righteousness, will never work. And, metaphorically, why those who gave birth to St. Christopher's martyrdom argue its validity.
5. Juno (Dir. Jason Reitman) Phew! A Comedy! If you made it this far, I admire your intestinal fortitude, as Rollins would say.
Any film delivering a first scene line like "It's not an Etch-A-Sketch. That's one doodle that can't be undid, home skillet," when referring to a 16 year-old cutie patootie furiously shaking a home pregnancy test, is the shit. Working from a devilishly good script by Diablo Cody, dialogue that ranks with Clockwork Orange and Heathers for slingin' wordplay like it ain't no thing almost steals the show. However, Hard Candy pistol Ellen Page proves she's the new badass in town. I pray she's as cool as she seems because a plethora o' young'uns in tranny bras are going to call her God.
It is rare I accept the word-of-mouth compare and contrast for movies, but Juno is this year's Little Miss Sunshine. It's fun, charming, a hint risqué, but it works for everyone. Kudos to a fine supporting cast who play multiple notes but never try to steal a frame from Page. See it now, in second-run, or at home, just make sure you're with someone you love. As noted in Into the Wild, "Happiness is only real when shared."
6. Atonement (Dir. Joe Wright) Back to tragedy and war. Sorry, chaps. Hadn't read the book. Saw it based on the false report that it held hands with The English Patient. (Side note: Anthony Minghella has a cameo at the end.) And while it doesn't hold a war lantern to English Patient, it does contain a variety of scenes that rank among the meatiest of the cream cheese. James McAvoy got me hooked on his charm when he played the horny Scottish doctor in Last King of Scotland, but now I'm convinced he's got some mighty chops. Keira Knightley hasn't proved more than a corset ham in my book, until now. Damn, the girl can fly when pushed. There are scenes of such ferocious resentment that you could feel the body temperature of the theatre rise. The only comparison I can recall is Pacino's "I'm a lawyer" speech through grit teeth in Angels in America and maybe a few lines from Closer. There are also scenes of ferocious love; an oxymoron to many, but something I deeply revere. "Come back to me" for all its repetition in war-torn love stories is a line that won't ever be delivered better. And Atonement also takes the prize for Best Steadicam shot since its deflowerment 32 years ago in Bound for Glory. Also kudos to the makeup department for the red curtain scene. It is rare that a film can have a handful of scenes that make the whole thing too profound to dismiss.
7) Once (Dir. John Carney) "Falling Slowly" came on iTunes right as I hit return to start writing this sentence. How appropriate for a crudely shot musical love story (barf) that you just can't help falling for. The songs are delicate and simple but performed with such radiant grace that sweat mixes with the tears and magical things happen while you're hanging out with Glen & Marketa.
[Excerpt from a blog on June 10, 2007 entitled Fabulous Time for a Guinness]: ONCE upon a time I asked a Portland singer/songwriter if he wanted to make a movie with me. The film would involve him playing a romantic homeless musician living off tips, falling in love, having his heart ripped into shreds and writing a brilliant album. After a little foreplay, the project disintegrated.
Today I got to see what it might have looked like, and it was wonderful.
Glen Hansard plays what I can only assume is mostly himself. There's no way an actor could pull off these songs. Something special happens during Scene 2, when a slow handheld approach of a charming redheaded Irish street musician with a broken guitar crooning something about love smashes into a shirtgrab scuffle of undeniable porterhouse by the time the shot is in a medium. Imagine the thick heartache folk soul of Van Morrison topped with the intensity and determination of James Brown. Or Damien Rice with balls.
Unfortunately Once is being overpampered because there's nothing else like it right now. It is not, in my opinion, "the best musical film of our generation." It's simple, crudely shot, and predictable. But it is honest, fun, beautiful, and overflowing with gorgeous soulful music.
8) Michael Clayton (Dir. Tony Gilroy) Another hat tip to 70s style filmmaking, essentially meaning less formula, more risk; less concept, more complexity; less caution, more honesty. All performances are solid, and the moments that seem far-fetched are healed by the last scene between Clooney and Swinton. Bonus points for having the most realistic assassination scene since The Parallax View.
9) Gone Baby Gone (Dir. Ben Affleck) Before you press Delete, rent it. I never thought AFFLACK had it in him. The dude knows Boston, and his brother is a talent. The twist is unforgivably predictable, but Casey and Monahan's just smart enough to suspend disbelief, just good-looking enough to stand out, just tough enough to not get their asses kicked works. There's a scene in a bar (imagine that), where you sense things about to go frighteningly wrong, and that one scene makes me want to see it again. It is masterful work.
10) Charlie Wilson's War (Dir. Mike Nichols) Anyone who doesn't like Phillip Seymour Hoffman can fuck himself, you fucking child. (See it for just that scene alone. Anyone who's wanted to cuss out the boss has a treat waiting.) I hated him PSH for three years, put up with him for another three, but after Magnolia I couldn't help but love him, and after Capote, I realized how brilliant he had been all along. In the hands of the beautiful Mike Nichols and the potty mouth of Aaron Sorkin, no wrong can be done. Hoffman is Player 3 but steals the show along with Nichols's direction and some exquisite comedic editing. If only one line had been nuked, I could feel so much better about this tough-love-bitchslap of realization (protecting Afghanistan then, destroying now)… anyway, as Act II is pumping gallons of Hooray into the audience, the music spikes and the "weapons expert" shouts with glee: Let's kill some Russians!
Um, sorry? Was it Nichols intention to throw caution to the wind and go for careless realism or is he pulling a poker face and going "Gotcha! Made you root for murder! Don't you feel bad?"
Despite the Nichols half feel-good-tricks, half significant-polisci-history lecture formula, the manipulation factor stays at a calm snicker despite the music cues.
11) Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (Dir. Tim Burton) I never thought I would see an operatic musical ever again. I walked out of Evita and ran out of Chicago. I even cringe during moments of Dancer in the Dark, and that's Bjork! But my darling Cathy and beloved Mr. N convinced me to give it a go, and I am now a convert. I have resigned my solemn vows of opera banishment and will praise anyone else who can pull off this masterful blend of macabre and show tunes. Weaving clever cleavers of unapologetic blood geysers, smashed craniums, roach-infested meat pies and a fanciful daydream in lieu with a Dresden Dolls video, I had an absolute foot tapping, gut-busting blast. Thank you, Catherine Elizabeth.
12) Darjeeling Limited (Dir. Wes Anderson) Wes Anderson is back. Rich colors, dysfunctional families, great soundtracks, and uncomfortable, honest moments are kisses to my film-loving heart.
13) I'm Not There (Dir. Todd Haynes) Cate Blanchett is so good I don't know what to do. Thank you, Australian acting schools. Please watch Don't Look Back, Bound for Glory, and A Hard Day's Night before seeing I'm Not There.
14) Control (Dir. Anton Corbijn) Micheal Winterbottom's 24 Hour Party People brought some infamous music history events to the forefront in a colorful and decadent fashion. Control takes it further, explains a few inside moments, and elaborates on the subtleties; this time through the eyes of Ian Curtis. Though the Joy Division legend's days are as blasé as any bloke trying to say something, it feels compelling just to spend time with the persona. From the pints of bitter to sweat-drenched button downs, details and theories are thick and ripe, even in the constraints of black and white.
15) Eastern Promises (Dir. David Cronenberg) How do the two Davids of surrealism pull it off? At least Lynch has proven that if he wants to he can pull off flatline realism (Straight Story), Cronenberg just doesn't have it in him. From the obviously rigged motorcycle Naomi Watts putts around on to giving Vincent Cassell carte blanche as an obnoxious psychopath, you wonder how the film continues to work. Designing the most beautifully choreographed fight scene of 2007 doesn't hurt. I can't explain why I enjoyed this film when so many of its ingredients inherently piss me off, but somehow it works. Weird.
16) La Vie en Rose (Dir. Olivier Dahan) Marion Cotillard is my new favorite actor. In the blasphemous war-glorifying A Very Long Engagement, the one chemical that kept it from ruin was Cotillard. In La Vie en Rose, she plays the Little Sparrow, Edith Piaf. As per usual, there is dismay despair drugs decadence…. Everything you didn't want to know about the only voice in more pain than your own. In one scene, Piaf is approached by Marlene Dietrich and given the most heart-warming compliment. Whether that moment actually happened is insignificant. I believed it. And I experienced it with a bottle of cherry cider at my feet and my beloved Crystal Z in my lap. In the front row of Cinema 21's balcony. And as "Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien" flew from the screen, our tears mixed, giving birth to a memory that can save lives.
17) Rescue Dawn (Dir. Werner Herzog) Werner Herzog, the Vietnam jungle, POW camp, and method acting. Powerhouse performances from Christian Bale, Jeremy Davies, and particularly Steve Zahn.
18) 3:10 to Yuma (Dir. James Mangold) Last year I told you guys to watch out for Ben Foster and look what he did; he outplayed Russell Crowe and Christian Bale. Delivering the best horse dismount and then the best gun draw in the history of Westerns, Foster manages to stink of horse puckey right off the screen in a costume that belongs on a Mel Brooks cowboy.
Yes, of course, the Elmore Leonard script, Crowe charisma, and Mangold direction make for an entertaining two hours, but at the end of it all, all I could do is mimic Foster's, "Are you a posse?" BANGBANGBANG "I hate posses."
19) American Gangster (Dir. Ridley Scott) Ehh… Almost. Solid effort. Outstanding Act III. The characters are stock and tricks transparent. Lord Ridley, we know you tried your best. Watch the HBO series The Wire if you want to plunge deeper into this material.
20) Lust, Caution (Dir. Ang Lee) The moral: one bad decision in college can get you killed. Just as the seductress spy gives the ultimate sacrifice, her body, to defend what she believes in (or thinks she does); the actors do the same for the film. The notorious sex scenes are choreographed for certain but not simulated. But beneath the tabloid fodder, there is an art about these scenes that Ang Lee captured. What Cronenberg tried to do with Crash and Winterbottom with 9 Songs is fully realized in Lust, Caution. The blur between sex and love is finally given some clarity in two dimensions.
21) In the Valley of Elah (Dir. Paul Haggis) An almost unforgivable exaggeration of PTSD effects. But Tommy Lee Jones's performance, a carefully exploited war stance, and a brisk pace keep this film from the desert holes.
22) Lions for Lambs (Dir. Robert Redford) A lecture in three conversations. This movie is necessary for two reasons: Filling in nationwide blanks and encouraging individual questions.
23) Margot at the Wedding (Dir. Noah Baumbach) Shooting on desaturated16mm does not excuse Nicole Kidman's character from being a total bitch. Writer/Director Noah Baumbach must have had a fucked adolescence as The Squid & The Whale made abundantly clear two years ago, but get over it already. Your lead cannot treat her kid like shit. It doesn't work. I never thought I'd say this, but Thank God for Jack Black. On the other hand, I want to head Northeast just to hang with Jennifer Jason Leigh. She was the one redeeming factor of the equation.
24) Grindhouse (Dir. Robert Rodriguez & Quentin Tarantino) An experiment gone wrong. Just because we can now enjoy Planet Terror and Death Proof separately on our way-too-fancy home theater systems does not mean that we are experiencing Grindhouse. It's over, and we blew it. What Rodriguez & Tarantino set out to do was admirable, even in its bad taste, and only 10% of the filmgoers caught on. Oh, well, I had a great time throwing popcorn and cussing out the screen in a PBR frenzy the two times I went.
25) Before the Devil Knows You're Dead (Dir. Sidney Lumet) What happens when you don't send bad boys to their rooms. A warning to be attentive to your little psychopaths before it's too late.
There were a few highly praised films released in 2007 that I either missed or that have not been released in PDX yet including: 4 Months 3 Weeks 2 Days Persepolis Rocket Science
HONORABLE MENTIONS Heima The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (Top 5 Moment: snake beheading) Diving Bell and the Butterfly Waitress Black Snake Moan 300 Across the Universe (It feels like Julie Taymor saw the Cirque show and got jealous. Sorry.) Day Night Day Night You Kill Me Zodiac (Great performances from Mark Ruffalo and Robert Downey Jr.) Oceans 13 (Listen for The Godfather references. Good fun.) I Am Legend 28 Weeks Later A Mighty Heart (Outstanding performance by Angelina Jolie.) Ratatouille
RECOMMENDED RENTALS FROM 2006 OR EARLIER Lies of Others Intermission 1900 Harlan City, USA Fuck Dying Gaul Brakhage Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry Hostel Youth of the Beast Go, Go, Second Time Virgin Do Not Deliver Us From Evil Stagedoor Unscripted/K Street (HBO SERIES) The Wire (HBO SERIES) Rome (HBO SERIES) Weeds (SHOWTIME SERIES) Bobby The Perez Family (Mairsa Tomei is so much fun.) Factory Girl (Guy Pearce pulls off the best Warhol since Bowie.) Friday Night Lights Blues Brothers (Top 5 best car chase ever.) Go Tigers!
FAVORITE TRAILERS Heima Day Night Day Night There Will Be Blood 300 Across the Universe Cloverfield
I forgot to turn on the heater last night. I woke a little before 9 shivering, contemplating the last image from my dream (wicker basket sandles being mounted on a resting or dead foot.)
I rolled out of the nightly womb, jacked up the thermostat, turned on iTunes and crawled back in the covers. The first song on the shuffle was Nick Drake's "One of These Things First". I became filled with the goods. Every shimmering memory from the past few days rushed back in the noodle. And became extremely yummy. Seeing Bryan Free perform; my beloved Princess Lucy sharing some binding news; writing a Christmas card to my niece; discovering/creating one of the Top 10 best moments of my career for the SoFLeX video; the way my friend Jaime smiled at me when we bid adieu.
Jesus, for all the storms that fester and damn near explode inside my shell, I am so in love with people, with creation, with the knowledge that I have the ability to help someone laugh or cry or think.
And though I am attending a party this evening in which presents will be placed on the floor and trounced in protest, I wish all of you a very Merry Christmas.
If this day is good for anything, it sure as heck feels good to be alive and loved. Please read this last sentence twice.
Back in November I helped link my two biggest clients together: a combat archive establishment and a video production company.
They almost immediately went into production on a documentary about Oregon National Guardsmen who returned from Iraq. They interviewed 9 soldiers with different backgrounds, and the revelations in what they said were powerful. But even more so is what the soldiers brought to us after the interviews.
Once trust had been established, the movies and photographs that they shot temselves were generously donated to the film. The footage was terrifying and brutal, and most importantly, genuine. And you be surprised at the difference between the soldiers' POV and CNN's.
My bit, outside of assistant editing, was the music. And Portland's finest took the call. Portland musicians Alela Diane, The Prids, Children of Paradise, and 16 Volt all generously lent their material to this project. And I thank them.
Tonight, June 18th, at the Hollywood Theater (NE 41st & Sandy) THIS IS WAR: Memories of Iraq will premiere. I hope to see some of you there.
This is a not-for-profit project, and the proceeds go to a relief fund of some sort. I think the admission is $10, but if you donated music to the film, you will be on a pass list.
The film is scheduled to start at 7pm. Come if you can. Sorry about the short notice.
love to all, sean
P.S. Here are links to a news clip and comments from the premiere: http://www.kgw.com/video/video-index.html?nvid=152690 http://oregonatwar.blogs.oregonlive.com/
Apologies for the misogynyst name; it's a reference to Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang, which is probably in the Top 5 most accurate portrayal of Hollywood films of all time. (Sunset Blvd, The Bad & The Beautiful, Swimming with Sharks, Short Cuts [which is more LA in general but is too fucking good to leave out]) Any other suggestions?
Hollywood to me represents the fallen Mecca. A Jerusalem for the United States. The lowest common denominator of taste and behavior. And with the upward swing of drama in my own private idaho, The H-Bomb feels even closer.
Where is all this coming from? I am sick and tired of 101 year-old teenagers named Bunny, Honey, and Sunny sending me fucking friend requests. Remember back in 2004 when MySpace was cool and unpolluted? Kind of like Starbucks in 1989? Now we actually have to have spam filters on our accounts. All we want is to network and stay in touch with our friends. We can get our porn elsewhere. And hey, I love porn, but I want it when I want it and only then. So, Dickheads Anonymous out there, stick with pussywagon.com and leave us in peace.
However, I don't think my e-shout will send up more than a few midnight hurrahs; thus adding the "Last Name or E-Mail" option on my privacy setting, which I thought of as ironic and pretentious until recently. But now I am a certified member of the Advertising Fuck Off campaign-in-the-ass.
So, if I meet one of you beautiful folk in the misty eve of Thursday or so and you want to stay in touch, message me first, and I'll reply with the Golden Ticket.
Back again with what is normally a self-indulgent dessert feast of gush. However, I have received numerous e-mails this month asking where The List was. And for that I'm flattered. There are some newbies on the receiving end of this communique. So, if you have no want or desire for my cinematic appreciation drum solo, let me know. And if you agree, disagree, or are piqued in any fashion, let me know. It's a long, winding read this year, so without further ado-dodo-dodo-shoo-bop:
1) The Departed: I think I finally called it quits after the fifth viewing in less than a month. Phew, did I love to get my face punched in by this pulverizing feast of accumulated practice-makes-perfect Irish stew. I rewatched Infernal Affairs (the source material for The Departed) just to make sure the A-list was on the up-and-up, and it was certified by the hammer of the film gods that The Departed is 99% all its own. And like what Hendrix did to "All Along the Watchtower," it took something strong and beautiful and fistfucked it into nitro overdrive.
My friends, we have a beast in our midst, and he wants to feed on your senses and drink like the Rainbow Goblins. And if you dare to stand in the darkened den, you will be ravished and pummeled into a smiling carcass of blue, red, purple, and most of all, green. Our High Priest of American cinema has shoved an electrified thirteen-inch monster prod up his own arse and turned backwash into spewing bitchslaps of filmic knucklebusting. (from MySpace blog posted 10/6/06)
Though my vocabulary on the mean leans toward a drunk Irish sailor, in this case it is intentional. The profanity in The Departed exceeds excess. But like Robert Towne's script for The Last Detail, if you removed one "motherfucker" the whole thing could topple. If you can see past the "pricks" and "cocksuckers", you will find a searing script handled to perfection by the Little Bishop himself and his itchy trigger finger, Thelma Schoonmaker. I thought the first forty minutes of The Aviator were perhaps the finest Act I editing in the history of movies, and what happened? Thelma won the Oscar, tossed it aside, and said, "Okay, now let me show you what I can really do." KA-BOOM! By the time The Departed gets to its opening credit sequence - eighteen minutes after the Warner Bros. logo subsides - you have been propelled through the whole set up, and you realize you haven't taken a breath yet. And just when you think you can, Dropkick Murpheys damn near tears your face off as it blasts through the theatre.
It's embarrassing to admit, but I have been imitating Alec Baldwin's crotch grab line for the past three months. I'll do it for you if you ask nicely.
2) Babel: To be honest I was slightly let down. But it's my own damn fault (and Babel's marketing campaign, which released the best trailer of the year.) Nevertheless, the enviable writing/directing team of Arriaga and Inarritu have pulled off their hat trick with this mighty force of complexity and significance. The two previous PAINtings by these gents, Amores Perros and 21 Grams, are two of my favorite depression cafes to visit.
Babel fills it tapestry with a central theme of miscommunication. But within that is something as universal and more relevant for our current political and social climates, Abandonment. And rather than leaving us like the sub-characters do to main characters, we are given an answer, a solution: protect and love your family - it's all you can do and all you should think about as the tumultuous world brews its storms. Remember a film in 1999 that proposed the same thing? (except instead of sandstorms and ecstasy as the metaphors, it was frogs.)
It's a shame that Santaolalla (the composer) recycled his hypnotic piece ("Iguazu") which was used so memorably in Michael Mann's The Insider. But then again no matter how many times we hear Adagio for Strings in a film, we're going to remember Platoon.
3) Children of Men: Wow! This one made up for the expectation element. Remember the trailer? The world is in chaos. (Snooze.) Women can't have babies. (gee whiz.) Clive Owen with four days growth (aarrgggghh!) All of this is true, and it feels like you're seeing it for the first time. Gracias, Senor Cuaron.
One of my 2006 discoveries from years past was a British filmmaker named Peter Watkins, whose technique was to shoot narratives as if they were documentaries. Now, this technique is so old these days, you want to scream fraud everytime there's a handheld camera on the loose. But Watkins was doing this 35 years ago. Godard and Truffaut and Cassavetes are the names credited for cinema verite, but Watkins was taking it to another level with the intensity of his films' subject matter; one is a predatory Vietnam-era psy-op prison film called Punishment Park about freethinking Americans who are hunted by police. The other is a faux documentary about Edvard Munch. I'm sorry, but that is just the coolest thing ever.
Anway, back on the ranch, William Friedkin used this well in The French Connection, Paul Greengrass with Bloody Sunday and United 93, which we'll get to later, but Alejandro Cuaron is kicking its ass and taking it to a more spectacular level by using longer takes and fucking invisible CGI. Also to its credit, what the story does with the supporting characters grabs you by the head and screams "GOT-CHA!!!" Bring it.
Oh, and another special compliment. If you're like me... scary thought.. anyway, you can't stand the devil's advocate of story devices, exposition, where the storyteller makes obnoxiously damn sure you know what's going on. Some handle it well (Casblanca is still my favorite with the "I was misinformed" line. Boom and out.) Some, not so well (every George Lucas film after THX 1138, every Kevin Smith movie, every movie that has "In a world..." in the trailer.) Where was I? Sorry, the rants take over the asylum. So, Children of Men found a way to deliver exposition without making me want to pull my hair out: a joke. A wonderful Michael Caine gets all the "Why can't women have babies" to-do out of the way in a 60-second joke told between bong hits. Groovy.
4) The Proposition: I have a few new favorite actors because of the 2006 releases, one of them is Danny Huston. Brando, Mickey Rourke, Mark Ruffalo, Russell Crowe, and Danny Huston all have this natural thick, roguish persona that is filled with pain and suffering. And they don't work it - it just is.
The Proposition, written by Nick Cave, is a western set in the Australian Outback at the turn of the century. The aboriginies are either working with the English law or have gone absolutely bugshit in their lost habitat. The story focuses on Irish hoodlum, Guy Pierce, just after he and his harmless little brother have been apprehended by Captain Ray Winstone. Pierce's really, really bad brother (Huston) is tucked away like an animal in the mountains. The proposition in question is for Pierce to kill his big brother to save his little brother. And from there the Western version of Apocalypse Now commences. And it's deliriously good.
The music, the cinematography, the performances are so flavorful. You wipe your forehead from the overwhelming heat; you flinch from the flies, and you gag at the stench of death. While Apocalypse is a superior film, it didn't achieve the sensorama of The Proposition. Huston is a mesmerizing Colonel Kurtz-like beast. Intelligent and mad as a hornet. Crouched on his ledge overlooking the dead lands. And a honey/whiskey voice that douses your repulsion in hypnosis.
Very bloody. And very bloody good.
5) Little Miss Sunshine: What a relief! Cheers all around. From the opening beats of DeVotchKa playing over a wonderfully human moment of desire that dips the audience into memory syrup to the final cheer for the underdog, LMS is a true gem. The story and technique are familar. A road movie in order to achieve the cute little 'un's dream. And it still works. Each character is loaded with cliche taboos, but it still feels fresh. How did they do it? Masterful craft and determination, my guess. And the most painful serenade of "America the Beautiful" in the history of history. The pace feels off during the actual pageant. And the bombastic monologue from the troubled teenager that practically shouts, "By the way, this what the movie's about!!!" are the weak links to an otherwise thoroughly enjoyable film.
6) an inconvenient truth: Just see it. Like, right now. Stop reading, go see it, and this e-mail will still be here when you get back.... Whya re you still reading? Oh, you saw it. Good. Please go to: http://www.climatecrisis.net/takeaction/whatyoucando/ and please do what you can to help.
7) Pan's Labyrinth: Just so you know, I am NOT a sucker for fantasy films. Many of my friends are, and it sucks that I can't share their enthusiasm. It's the same thing with musicals and troma; I just can't tap in. H-O-W-E-V-A-H, Pan's Labyrinth has rescued me from the dark depths of Sad Bastardonia and the evil Reality Dragon and hurled me like a mighty fireball into creamy infatuation with the Sea of Fant. Hmmm. I wonder if it was the part about 8 minutes in -- after establishing you had a Spain, 1942 setting (interesting), after you were charmed by the beauty of the young female protagonist (not since Natalie Portman in The Professional...), after you saw the forst faerie (wow, no glitter in sight, rock on) -- the evil antogonist, who you were sure would just squint his beady little eyes when one of his staff said something he didn't like uttered the line: Don't fuck with me. Woah! And in Spanish, it's even more menacing. The days of tame fantasy with little kids is now firmly over; you have a choice beyond the comics. City of the Lost Children came close, but I'm sorry, I thought it was boring. Pan's Labyrinth involves all of the elements necessary for the fire to light: genius art direction, cinematography, make-up, CGI, and a harrowing score. But it excels in its rebelliousness with violence, language, and story twists. This stuff doesn't happen in a fantasy movie... it does now.
8) Volver: Almodovar - enough said. Okay, I'll say more anyway. He loves women. He loves film. He loves music. I love him.
9) Marie Antoinette: I knowthis is cheap, but I'm going to copy/paste the MySpace blog I wrote after seeing it because I want to finish this thing before 2008: Lady Coppola has a piece of our adolescent forever in her eyes and has shared it accordingly. Marie Antoinette is lovely. In an expolsion of splendor and excess, the chimes of our tide soar in and drown our melancholy in nostalgic bliss. A mix tape of Siouxsie, New Order, Air, Aphex Twin, The Cure, et al. All of which are surrounded by a simultaneously charming and heartbreaking tale of forced responsibility, femininity, duty, and confusion. And also my favorite of cinematic elements crystallized within, honesty. I can think of few things more beautiful and significant than the breast feeding of cinematic Mother's Milk.
10) UNITED 93: Paul Greengrass made quite the impression with Bloody Sunday, the retelling of January 30, 1972, where English soldiers fired on a peaceful protest march in Derry and killed 13 people. The event that inspired the U2 song. It was brutally honest and unnerving. And what heightened those feeling was that it retained an objective point-of-view throughout.
United 93, a film about what would seem like the most all in favor, one-sided, guilty on all counts subjective argument does the same thing. Greengrass actually had the sand to open a 9/11 film with a reading from The Koran.
No actors. No artificial lighting. No score (that I can recall). The people who survived the incident (the police, the watch tower control personnel) all play themselves. Kudos to Greengrass for asking permission from every family who lost someone on the flight before making the film.
It is a horrible and necessary experience to view.
11) Venus: Peter O'Toole will always be the flowing silhouette on the top of the sand dune. The rough beard tete-a-tete with Katherine Hell Kitten Hepburn. The crazy as rat shit director barking orders on a bridge. Until now.
I now choose to remember Sir Peter as Maurice Randall, a Shakespeare-spewing Romeo with a prostate and a lovely laugh, who refuses to put his love for women in the shadows despite the Viagra-plus it would take to... raise the curtain on any play past Act II. Accompanying him is a script chockfull of innocuous age jokes, an endearing though simple story, and a glimpse, however brief, of my beloved Vanessa Redgrave.
In 1979, another Peter from the English stage offered his swan song of sorts, and Venus swims delicately along its side. I recommend this film with all of my heart.
12) The Queen: Cobain, Tupac, and Lady D were three tragic losses of the 90s that didn't unnerve me past the "what a shame" level. I don't care about celebrity (or try not to). I don't read People magazine. I don't watch TV. I was angry at the paparazzi, and I was fucking infuriated with Elton John for rewriting Candle in the Wind. Write something new, or have Bernie do it for you like usual.... I didn't know a goddamn thing, did I?
After watching The Queen I believe I have an inkling of insight into why people mourned her so, and I even felt a bit ashamed. I too related to her. Using a clever bit of unique character play, the film uses the inauguration of Tony Blair as its jumping off point, and it continues to use Blair as the narrative agent even when the focus has shifted to the cold misty marshes of Elizabeth II's mansion land. And like all narrative agents are supposed to do, the audience's shifting points of view move with Blair's.
Helen Mirren is worthy of all the acclaim that this performance is bringing to her, and a special round of applause for showing a cat whisker of fear at all the right moments and only the right moments. It is a universal example of actor restraint. Bravo!
13) The Devil and Daniel Johnston: There's the story about the music. There's the schizophrenia. There's the tie to Sonic youth. There's the forced plane crash and the "you're gonna burn" Jesus fetish. There's the comeback kid element. Then there's my favorite: it was all about a teenage crush. To me, that's as brutally real and beautiful as it can get.
14) Thank You for Smoking: I just love me some black comedy. And Aaron Eckhart seems to be the king. He did make his big screen debut (well, as big as the art house theatre screens are) in In the Company of Men after all. And thoroughly kicked its ass. So much so that women spat in his face wherever he went. Ladies, he's an actor; he's just a very convincing misogynist.
TYFS has a tight hilarious script and just enough frightening truth to keep the pear prickly.
15) Shortbus: Sex is fun. Relationships are a pain. And John Cameron Mitchell, our beloved Hedwig, wants to show you all of it, literally. One lesbian with a penchant for turning Polaroids into works of art. One suicidal gay beauty who achieves what so many boys and men wish they could do in the arena of self satisfaction. One frustrated Asian-American. The most charismatic sex club owner (Justin Bond, I love you.) And the most memorable rendition of "The Star-Spangled Banner" in the history of anything.
16) Blood Diamond: I too screamed "Die! Die! Die!" at the trailer when that lame ass "In America, it's bling-bling. But out here it's bling-Bang" line came out of Leo's obnoxious South African diarrhea pie hole. I had no intention of seeing it. Edward Zwick, while being a great producer, has proven again and again that he should not be directing. Glory was all in the performances of Washington and Freeman. Legends of the Fall was like a gorgeously shot Harold Pinter play (i.e. Where the fuck is the middle part?). The Last Samurai just flat out sucked. (but thank you for bringing Ken Watanabe to the States.)
Blood Diamond is a great movie. Harrowing, if just a touch exploitive, in its depiction of the murderous children. Point is, you believe it. Two men, one white, one black, in a country notorious for its race relations. One wants a diamond. One wants his stolen son back. They need each other to achieve their individual goals. blah blah blah. It actually feels fresh when you're watching it. The editing is tighter than a fist. And the limited time spent with a wasted Jennifer Connelly as a New York photo journalist is a plus. That one fucking line is over before you know it. Just think of it as a nasty shot of cold medicine before you can get back to work. And Leo got an Oscar nom; so his hysterical bits of injected South African slang like "Ah, mag-ik" when bumming a smoke don't seem to bother anyone else. He's brilliant in the remaining 2 hours plus.
17) The Last King of Scotland: A horny Scottish med student gets himself in a wee bit of a bind when he makes friends with Idi Amin. It's a solid piece of work, and if Whitaker doesn't win the Oscar, there is no justice (pun intended).
18) Notes on a Scandal: What is it with English films and psychopath gay characters? Did you see Enduring Love last year? Jesus, it's like Fatal Attraction without a hint of attraction. If you were the future James Bond, would you want to boom-boom with Hugh Grant's flatmate from Notting Hill?
Anywho, a once-again flawless Jusi Dench, who acts like a Russian iceskates, delivers a powerhouse of complexity and determination. In a captivating voice-over her character seduces the audience into understanding her plight. In this case, it's a crush on Cate Blanchett. Well, who needs a seduction for that logic anyway? Well, Blanchett's husband, a scathingly funny Bill Nighy, for one. Also, the mother of Blanchett's 15 year-old lover doesn't care for the situation too much. And proves so in the most brutal cat fight since National Geograhic's Wild Animal special.
19) Casino Royale: A Bond that bleeds and bruises. That drinks to feel less guilty. That trusts the women he sleeps with. If you ever wanted to know why James Bond is a misogynist, overcautious, alcoholic Rico Suave that never gets hurt, watch what happened on his first year with the BSS. How many of you have sent ELLIPSIS as a text? "Sorry, that last hand almost killed me." Crying blood. And a mother of a Parkour chase scene. (If you want to see more of that, rent District B-13, which was the first film to take it to blessed exploitative value.)
20) Alpha Dog: If you know me, you know I am full of love. So, allow me to write something really awful: If I were king I would grab a handful of people, line them against a wall, and put octopi down their shorts until they begged to be shot. P-Daddy Combs or Diddy or whatever the fuck he's calling himself these days would be one of them. I want to shout: You're a fucking thief of music, and you should be destroyed to this guy. But then I saw him in Monster's Ball and went Woah. He's a really good actor. I then forgave him all wrong doings, and we don't discuss what he does for a living anymore. Another of these gents is Justin Timberlake, who took his bubble gum afro and 80's dance moves back to the top of the charts and ruined any potential for taste in music for millions of young 'uns. He should be destroyed. Then I saw Alpha Dog. He too is forgiven, and we will no longer discuss what he did for a living.
And another of those new favorite actors I mentioned a thousand words ago, Aplah Dog uses him with afternoon delight. His name is Ben Foster. For Six Feet Under fans (Russell). For X-Men fans (Angel). In Alpha Dog, Foster plays a Jewish Nazi speed freak drug dealer who's a black belt in Tai Kwon Do and defecates on carpet. Keep an eye out for this one.
Honorable Mentions: The Prestige
Snakes on a Plane (if I had a lick of courage, I would make this ..1. SOAP is brilliant beyond words. And like trying to convince an atheist that Jesus loves him, you won't believe until you experience it for yourself. But it better be with a very, VERY big group of people.)
V for Vendetta
Inside Man
Brick
Hard Candy
M:i 3 (for longest tracking shot of Tom Cruise running through Beijing ever)
Lady Vengeance
Lady in the Water
Lower City
Jackass 2: Beyond the horse ejaculate and penis puppets is a very profound character study. No, I'm not kidding. When a man almost gets his fucking leg blown off, then performs the same stunt minutes later, there's not much will to live in this individual. You can watch Leaving Las Vegas and go on a depression binge for three days; you can watch Who's Life is it Anyway?/The Sea Inside/Million Dollar Baby and contemplate the valuelessness of your life; or you can watch Jackass 2 and laugh your ass off. Hint: they're all about the same thing.
The Science of Sleep: Expecting more from the director of the greatest film of 2004.
Running with scissors
Letters from Iwo Jima
Apocalypto
The Fountain: It's an absolute sin that The Fountain was not nominated for Best Cinematography, Best Art Direction, Best Costume Design, and Best Visual Effects. Although I didn't love it as much as some of my dear ones, it is still a technically phenomenal piece of work.
Borat: I thought the material was staged. When I was assured it wasn't, I sat down and cried for five or six hours at the state of the States.
FILMS FROM 2005 OR EARLIER THAT I DISCOVERED AND LIKED/LOVED IN 2006: The Edukators Three Extremes Brother's Keeper Crimes and Misdemeanors Murphy's Romance 2046 (I found out where the title comes from [it's not the posted reason], I'll tell you for a dollar.) Punishment Park Edvard Munch Manny & Lo Elevator to the Gallows Hustle & Flow Le Circle Rouge Ride the High Country Match Point Happy Endings Tell Them Who You Are Transamerica (Felicity Huffman is a gem) King of the Ants Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada Reel Paradise Phatom of Liberty My First Mister Telling Lies in America Nine Lives In the Mirror of Maya Deren Bad Boy Bubby Young Poisoner's Handbook Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance 3-Iron Yojimbo Tsotsi A Patch of Blue March of the Penguins A Touch of Class What's Up, Doc? (I am gaga for Babs.) Narnia Roman Holiday Gallipoli Maya Lin: a strong clear vision Rififi (A must see for crime caper fans) Madadayo (Kurosawa's last film) Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter, and Spring Children Underground Cache Kurosawa Lord of War Un Homme et Une Femme Ice Station Zebra
Well, if you've made it all the way, I admire your intestinal fortitude, as Henry would say. I hope you see a few, and a few more if you like the first few. Phew.
love, sean
Currently
listening
:
All This Time
By
Heartless Bastards
Release date: 08 August, 2006
Dennis Kucinich for President 2008
Current mood: hopeful
In November of 2000, I was working as a video monitor/editor in Coral Gables, Florida at a place called International Video Projects, Inc. Sounds BIG, right? It was two guys in a cramped office making Elian Gonzalez jokes (South Floridians had an non-PC license with that one) and eviscerating the monotony by any means necessary. Not only was the daily grind a bitch, it was the content of our mandatory viewing. Watching the news in SoFlo was like reading the tragedies of Shakespeare, Euripides and Sophocles, and Dante's Inferno on a daily basis. Rape, brutality, murder, unparalleled road rage, hate crimes of every variety, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc. However, the most tragic incident didn't involve murder or mayhem. The Sunshine State was involved in the indecision of the narrowest election since Kennedy and Nixon. And good 'ol Gov. Jeb was there to take advantage of the non-voters.
Before I sound like an absolute finger pointer (aka asshole), let me accept my part in this. I didn't vote at that time in my life. I was one of the "my one vote doesn't count" people (aka idiot). If there was ever a time in history that disproved that fiction, bucket o' paint in the face. I apologize to all of you. I am so very sorry for my part in the last six years. But the one good thing that came out of it was the realization of the vitality in one person, one vote.
I am by no means a deep political thinker or activist. I subscribe to Equal Rights and Environmental Protection newsletters. I've participated in peace marches and a local anti-Hitler Youth protest. (All 5 of the little fuckers who bothered to show up were instantaneously chased away.) All I have for certain is what I believe to be the best way of life for myself and others. I don't believe in labels or parties or clicks or whatever. It makes things too easy. That goes for almost all things, but especially religion and politics. It's the thought, isn't it? The motives. With the ability and strength to achieve. The idea. How can you label an idea outside of good or bad, which is in itself a misnomer until exercised.
Needless to say I registered to vote as soon as I moved to Portland, a place called home. In 2004, around the time Howard Dean was getting some buzz as floating hope, I heard the name Dennis Kucinich for the first time.
The more I read, saw, learned, conversed, and most importantly, listened to the man himself... wow. Just wow. I love this man. I love not only what he says, and what he has DONE, I love that I believe him in regards to things to be done.
I'll stop here. If you are interested, check him out for yourself, as unbiased as possible. I'm sure many of you are way ahead of me, but if you're not, do yourself a favor and donate some time to Dennis Kucinich.
The sun is peeking through our blanket. A new light entered the clouds today. He was an iconic filmmaker, and he will always be a hero to me.
Robert Altman was an artist. A visionary director with his own niche. An aesthetic that is impregnable and unapologetic. He died last night, and I weep for the films he never made while embracing like a sacred blessing the films he left behind.
The aesthetic I speak of was all his own. The overlapping dialogue, the roaming camera, the long slow zooms... Altman explored the otherside of things. The areas people felt uncomfortable talking about or didn't want to reveal. He had a specialty for capturing devil's grin humor. Dark stuff under unavoidable sunlight.
Altman brought a humanity to psycho/sociopaths that I have not seen outside of the works of Lang and Murnau. There was no haunting score, and they were not separated from the masses. They were usually in the center of it. They were not monsters in shadows. They were evenly lit average looking people. (Watch Cold Day in the Park or Three Women or Short Cuts or Long Goodbye or Thieves Like Us or Gosford Park).
In M*A*S*H, he challenged the comedy genre by keeping the surgery scenes as bloody as they would really be. He explored suicide, misogyny, racism, religion, communism, and it's acknowledged as one of the greatest comedies of all time. The film was 90% improvised, and it won an Oscar for Best Screenplay.
Not to dismiss the screenwriters of Altman's films, especially not David Kahane, Altman just somehow made all of his films seem like they were being invented along the way. Perhaps they all were re-invented to some extent.
McCabe & Mrs. Miller is probably my favorite of Altman's films. It is one of the few organic films I can think of (outside of the Dogme 95 pieces.) A film that was created simultaneously with its subject, in this case a small town in the Canadian Rockies called Presbyterian Church, in which the primary establishment is a brothel. Then again, the most beautiful shot of the film is a steeple being placed on the church at sunset. The irony is there for the taking. Altman never pulled rabbits out of hats or jumped out from behind a door. He provided marvelous headache inducing subtlety.
Altman reveled in his artistic freedom, but he didn't rebel like the other 70s filmmakers. If someone wouldn't let him do the film the way he wanted, he would calmly just refuse the job. And although he gave more than a few studio execs double time coronaries, no one denied him. And it wasn't because of box office success.
Altman's selections for music were continually unique. Leonard Cohen for Brewster McCloud and McCabe. Steamy jazz for Short Cuts and Long Goodbye. Absurd military drum & trumpet for M*A*S*H. 15 renditions of "My Funny Valentine" for The Company. And his use of musicians as actors and vice versa became infectious. Altman loved ensemble casts. And he managed to make everyone memorable despite the number of characters.
He loved his casts and crews. Everyone was invited to dailies. I don't thnk there was an egotistical bone in the man's body, until someone tried to tell him he wasn't any good. And like one of his characters, he would say it didn't matter out loud and have riots and mayhem going off inside.
My favorite thing Altman ever said was on one of the special features for The Long Goodbye. He said he never gave weight to negative criticism, which he knew was bullshit, but he said if anyone ever came up to him on the beach near his house and said they loved one of his films, he would invite them over to watch it.
He gave every film he made everything he had, regardless of its accessibility or budget or whatever. And on many occasions, he made a timeless classic that holds you to its chest during every repeat viewing.
Recommendations (in order of personal favorite): McCabe & Mrs. Miller The Long Goodbye Thieves Like Us The Player M*A*S*H The Company Short Cuts
Currently
listening
:
Scarlet's Walk
By
Tori Amos
Release date: 29 October, 2002
sad
content
grateful
aggravated
exhausted
hopeful
