"MONSTERS": Low Budget, Big Payoff

I've been a small-time film maker and television writer, back in the day, and I've worked with student filmmakers at various levels of their projects. I really love what comes out of the limitations of small film budgets and minimal film crews. Regular readers will recall that one of my favorite films of all time is Shane Carruth's Primer, a film shot on 16mm for just over $7,000. Another favorite is Robert Rodriguez's El Mariachi, another hella enjoyable film made for well under ten grand.

So I haven't yet seen the whole movie version of Gareth Edwards's new film Monsters, but from the trailers and clips I've seen, I'm getting pretty excited. Reportedly shot on a budget of just $15,000 (yes, that's thousand, not million), the film seems to deliver on the things that get you hooked into a narrative: good characters, good story, and leaving a good deal to the imagination.

Here's a little behind-the-scenes clip about doing all this on such a low budget:



Monsters is available for download at Amazon, and it hits the theaters in limited release on October 29th.

Short documentary on Chris Marker

Chris Marker's short film, La Jetee (1962), was the inspiration for a song Thad Thompson and I wrote of the same name. His work is an all-time favorite of mine.

This is it

I have held on to an old issue of Time Magazine, from June 22, 1998, with a soft-focused picture of Michael Jordan on the cover. The story has the tagline, We may never see his likes again.

This is one of several press clippings I have saved about Jordan over the years. I remember being struck by an account of him that described him playing a game when he was sick with the flu. With fever and sweat pouring off of him, he was still an absolute team player and still led his team, inch by grueling inch, to victory.

I was, and am, impressed by this story, as much for what it says about Jordan's commitment to the team as for what it says about Jordan himself and his abilities. The ability to motivate an organization around you when you are not at your best is a feat worthy of noting. That Jordan had some of the greatest basketball skills - and all-around athletic skills - of any human who ever lived just adds to the sweetness of the moment.

I thought about this story the other night when Kira and I took a walk to the local theater to watch the new, and final, Michael Jackson concert film, This Is It.

The film documents the rehearsals leading up to the point of Jackson's death last Spring, as Jackson was rallying his own organization around him for a final set of fifty shows to end his career. This Is It collects footage shot during the rehearsals, and they reflect the roughness of the early days of the vision for the shows. We see dancers auditioning and sets being built. We see Michael, frustrated with himself and with his band at times, and at other moments elated and lost in the music and his own movements. He often sings half-voiced ("I'm saving myself for the performances," he says a couple of times), but even so, I was amazed at what I saw on screen.

Jackson was half a century old as this footage was shot, and he easily bests the energetic dancers half his age. His control, focus, and energy during rehearsals seemed to me to be greater than that mustered by many performers I have seen when they are on stage for real, when it counts. Despite the roughness of the staging and the sets, despite the occasional halts and false starts, it was hard for me not to get lost in the performances. Say what you will about Jackson's personality and life (and there is much that could be said), the man had singular talent.

In reflecting on these two Michaels these last few days, I have come back again and again to just how amazed and blessed I feel to be living exactly now, at this point in history.

I can remember a time when there were no personal computers. Hell, even pocket calculators were behemoths when I was a kid, often requiring a pretty large "pocket" for the name to work. I can remember when there was no internet, no email, no cell phones. With these memories, I look around at the Copernican leap we have taken in information and communication these past thirty years and I marvel. I feel like I have the best of both worlds - the before and the after.

I am amazed to have been alive at a time when Michael Jordan and Michael Jackson, both, were at their prime, as I mentioned above, but not only these two giants. There are many more. During this brief window I call my life, I have shared the Earth with Orson Welles, Fred Rogers, Claude Levi-Strauss and Jim Henson. I have been alive and breathed the same air as Phillipe Petit, William S. Burroughs, Nam June Paik and Steve Jobs (not to mention Steve Wozniak!).

I once bumped into Jacques Derrida in a Philadelphia train station, and shook his hand. He had a graciousness to him that inspires me to this day. I am happy that we shared the same ground beneath us at the same moments. I am happy to be able to say, "I was there, then."

Another time, on a whim, I called up Douglas Englebart, just to say hello, and to thank him. What I learned from that exchange is that genius does not always reap a just reward. On the phone Englebart was also gracious, but he sounded a little broken, too. It was not until a few years after we spoke that he truly began to receive the public recognition for his many visionary accomplishments. You may never have heard his name, of course, but if you are reading this, then odds are you have interacted just now with at least three of the many visions with which Englebart gifted the world.

Last weekend I learned of the passing of an old friend, David Knauert. I knew David from our time at seminary together. While our professional lives had taken us in different directions these past few years, it was always a joy for me in the moments we got to spend together, whether at a conference or is a chance meeting during our travels. The heroes of my life are not just these remote figures that make the news or shape the contours of history; they are also the simple kindnesses of folks like David Knauert, seeing that I'm feeling down and suggesting we go see a James Bond movie (as he did a few years back when we were both far from home at a conference). I don't think I ever properly thanked David for those many gracious moments he gave me during our friendship. Faced now with the finality of his passing, I am saddened by this fact almost to desperation. The moment we have to be amazed, to be thankful, to be touched, and to express our gratitude for all this abundance and this monumental coincidence of being together on this Earth, at this moment, in the midst of all these amazing changes and kindnesses, is only ever this one. This is the moment. Right exactly now.

This is it.

We are sharing this world with so many such visionaries. We are sharing the world with those whose minds are re-forming the world before our eyes. I am amazed at how many heroes I have today; genuine heroes, great and small.

You and I, we are living at an amazing moment. Think of all we have seen, and all there is yet to see. Think of the changes you have witnessed, and the amazing performances, great and small, with which we are blessed each day.

I am so thankful for these huge and remote heroes, yes. I am thankful for being alive to share the world with a Jordan or a Jackson. I am even more thankful for the friends with whom I have been blessed to share this world, and this time, in this little window of our lives on Earth. I am thankful for the kind words, and encouragement, and the love of these friends. I am thankful for the many ways in which they inspire and amaze me. I am thankful for the talents and the visions and the dreams and the ways - great and small - in which this amazing family of friends is changing and re-forming this little corner of this big world, the world we are sharing together in this little window of a lifetime.

This is it. This is the life I have been given, and I am amazed and grateful for it. I am thankful for my heroes. I am thankful for you, my friends. I am thankful for inspiration, and for graciousness. I am thankful for those who enter my life and shape it and shift it, no matter how fleetingly. I am thankful. Thank you. Thank you all. Amen.

Movie review: Paranormal Activity

"Horror" is such a broad genre that I feel uncomfortable, generally, admitting how much I really and truly enjoy horror movies - mostly because this admission immediately conjures up images of Jason and Freddy and Chucky and all those things that I actually don't like about horror movies.

When I lived in Atlanta, a regular ritual each Fall was to walk up the street to the Haunted House at Agnes Scott College. This was a kid-friendly affair, short on gore and long on spooky atmosphere. I preferred this sort of Halloween affair because it allowed me to get the adrenaline rush without dangerously spiking my post-traumatic stress disorder - the best of all worlds.

A little chill up the spine and lots of spooky atmosphere is what I enjoy. I like it when the experience gets into my head and not just my gut. These days, though, that's a rare find. M. Night Shyamalan's early films definitely qualified - I couldn't sleep for several nights after my first viewing of Signs - and there have been others. For the most part, however, I have pretty much given up on Hollywood feeding my enjoyment of the horror genre.

And, it turns out, Hollywood didn't - at least this time. A couple nights ago Kira and I went to the local theater to see Paranormal Activity, an extraordinarily effective film shot on the lowest of budgets (under $20,000) and the smallest of crews (including cast, it was about seven people). What the film lacked in production budget, however, it more than compensated for in imagination, story and overall chills. This movie gets into your head.

The movie presents itself as a simple assemblage of footage found in a camera after an "event," that took place in the house and the lives of a young couple, Katy and Micah. There is no narration, and no narrative (at least on the surface). Instead, the editing of the movie follows the mere "documentation" of these events through the lens of the video camera Micah purchased to get to the bottom of the noises waking them up in the middle of the night.

As the footage unfolds, we learn, piece by piece, that there is a lot more at work (and at stake) in these events than merely a creaking and settling house. There is an entity at work, and it is not friendly.

It is clear from the start that the movie borrows from the "found footage" trope of movies like The Blair Witch Project. To simply dismiss this as a copycat, however, is to miss the creepy effectiveness of this technique across decades of the genre. Blair Witch did not invent the "found footage" trope. Though the movie used it to terrifying effectiveness, you can find precursors in such gems as John Carpenter's The Prince of Darkness, and the little-known but very suspenseful and creepy nuclear-nightmare TV movie from 1983 called Special Bulletin. There is something about grainy video and point-of-view filming that gears our brains to feel like we are right in the thick of the action.

Being in the thick of it results in exactly the sort of seriously creepy spine-tingles I was talking about earlier. To be merely scary is pretty easy. BOO!, and your hiccups are gone. Done. However, to be eerie and chilling is a trickier demand. Paranormal Activity pulls it off in spades, however. It succeeds by taking everyday activities and objects - sleeping, domestic life in a suburban condominium, and young love - and rendering it uncanny.

The performances are perfectly understated. Both the Katy and Micah characters are played by relatively unknown actors who seem very natural and real. This, coupled with the "found footage" approach, lends heavily to the "this is really happening" vibe. Both the characters are even more believable for the traits each reveals as the events get weirder. Katy becomes more bitchy and whiny, and Micah tries hard to "alpha male" his way through the haunting. Neither approach works, but both add an air of truthfulness to the documentation. We are seeing people under stress and unguarded; the makeup is off. It does not make them more sympathetic characters, but it does get us even more involved as viewers in the immediacy of the moment.

What I found most interesting were the questions raised about the act of observation itself. As the film progresses, you get the subtle indication that this entity, whatever it is, knows that it is being filmed. Whether Micah's camera provokes anger or exhibitionism on the part of the intruder, it is arguable that things got a lot worse once the camera got involved. There's a media studies thesis in there somewhere, for your grad students reading this. For the rest of us, it makes for one hell of an effective movie.

Thanks to a well-handled viral marketing campaign, this film is now in theaters nationwide. I recommend going to see it on the big screen - it is worth it. Moreover, the experience of being around other folks getting creeped outta their gourds is kinda neat. So yeah, go see it in the theater, definitely.

But I also recommend going earlier in the day. This is one film you don't want hanging over your head when you go home to turn out the lights.

Recon, starring Peter Gabriel

Just discovered this short student film (!) starring Peter Gabriel and Charles Durning. I wish I could find it in higher quality, but you'll get the idea from this, regardless. Clocking in at just under ten minutes, it is a neat little piece of cyberpunk noir. Enjoy -

Yoko Ono - "Cut Piece"

Those of you who have been to my apartment may recognize these images. The framed poster in our front room is from this short film. If you are unfamiliar with this work, it is worth watching in its entirety. Yet another reason why Yoko is my favorite Beatle.

YOKO ONO CUT PIECE
Uploaded by TECHNOLOGOS

X-Files: I Want to Believe

So I've been fishing around on RottenTomatoes.com for the past few minutes, and I have to say that every snide claim Orson Welles ever made about "the critics" in his masterpiece, F for Fake, seems to be holding true.

Thus, in what follows, it should be noted that I am writing with the voice, not of the "expert," but as a fan. A dedicated fan.

I am a longtime fan, first of all, of the Batman mythos, and was thrilled by the work Christopher Nolan and Christian Bale did to bring the film franchise back into line with the roots of the mythology with Batman Begins a few years back. A superb film, on its own merits, that fact only makes it more amazing for its being a superhero film. (Though I do wince at the hokey physics involved in the "we need a microwave emitter to destroy the city water main" subplot - a narrative device bested in its useless melodrama only by the "Project Xylophone" sublot in Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged - but I digress) .

In terms of the new film, The Dark Knight, however, I cannot give such high praise. Yes, Heath Ledger is all that and a bag or anarchic chips; and yes, I am happy - like the rest of us - that Christian Bale is the first actor since Adam West who is actually able to turn his head from side to side while wearing the costume. But (and this is a tremendous but) - I spent almost the entire film trying to will myself to like it more than I actually did. Which is sad, because I really did want to be blown away by it, but frankly, I wasn't.

Make no mistake: I am glad I saw it; it was worth watching. But I have no real desire to watch it again.

Checking RottenTomatoes just now, however, you'd think this film was the Second Coming. To quote an old friend of mine, Jesus on a Telecaster with new strings couldn't get a crowd going like the buzz afoot among the critics about The Dark Knight. 95% approval, at my recent perusal. That's quite a thundering endorsement for a film that couldn't even edit the chase scenes for consistency of street flow (watch the first Batcycle scene again - you'll catch what I mean. Its simply a mess) or getting Harvey Dent out of an exploding hospital with any sort of temporal credibility. I take some solace in the fact that X-Men III and Superman Returns were worse still. But hey, I guess, it is, in the end, just a film based on a comic book. I can let some of that slide.

The real thorn in my side, however, is that the new X-Files film, I Want to Believe, is getting absolutely hammered by these same critics. But absolutely.

Full disclosure: I am not just an X-Files fan; I am an X-Files fan who adamantly does not subscribe to the opinion that the show went downhill after Season 6. I am one of those mutants who finds all nine seasons to form a coherent and satisfying story arc. In other words, I am a nerd about this.

To digress again for a moment, allow me to make my case with a few choice points. For me, X-Files was never about the conspiracies - it is about the characters. Mulder, it is true, does have his shifts through the series (losing his "faith" in extraterrestrials, the paradoxical closure and simultaneous lack of closure about his sister, Samantha, and his strange aversion to religious convictions of any stripe), but the really interesting development throughout the series is Scully. Her portrayal by Gillian Anderson is complex and fascinating - by turns strong and vulnerable, stubborn and hopeful, faithless and faith-filled. Her slow orbit around Mulder's monomania for "the Truth" reveals that she is literally as crazy as he is, in different but equally rewarding ways for the viewer.

I submit that you do not truly get the depths of her craziness - or the orbit - until Mulder is no longer a physical presence in the series. Hence the last two seasons, 8 and 9, are not an aberration, but a completion of a trajectory that begins (you can see it - go back and check for yourself) right there in Season 1, in the earliest episodes. Without belaboring the point or psychoanalyzing too much, I'll just say that the interplay of Scully's return to her Catholic faith, coupled with the recurrent "father figure" issues she has throughout the series, leavened by the openness to the paranormal and supernatural she gains through working with Mulder on the X-Files, is handled throughout the nine seasons with gravitas and grit. Her emotional and spiritual life is messy, a hodgepodge of half-remembered catechesis and moral-compass bearings that sometimes flag from true north - in other words, her story is a lot like many of ours.

I admit that I was quite fearful, entering the theater last night, that all of this development and complexity would go by the boards, to be lost in a sea of "rearranging the story" for the purpose of shock or recklessness. I expected the worst, and was surprised beyond my hopes with a truly rewarding, well-made movie.

I Want to Believe is watchable; moreover, it is re-watchable. It is, speaking as a die-hard fan, about the most accessible entry-point into Mulder and Scully's story arc you could ask for - by which I mean, non-viewers will be able to "get" it right off the bat.

Most pleasing to me, you get the chance to see the full-blown craziness of Scully - but now with Mulder there. Seeing how they negotiate their respective neuroses and obsessions onscreen (or fail to negotiate them) was very satisfying, for many of the reasons I have mentioned above. The emotional tenor is convincing, as well. Both actors know these roles well, and though they are stretching them in new directions, the core is still there - the chemistry and the complexity are in full effect.

Most of all - its creepy. Creepy in the fine tradition of all those episodes that still make my skin crawl. Creepy - but with that inexplicable ability to remind you that there is still hope, and that in the end, the monsters will not win - that has always been at the heart and soul of the X-Files. The tone of dread and dark is palpable, but tempered with moments of true humor that flow seamlessly with the larger story. The audience laughed and gasped, both, last night, at moments when I am certain that Chris Carter - the mad genius behind it all - intended us to.

And at the end, when the credits rolled, we applauded. As a true fan, I could not ask for more than that.

You can believe it

Kira and I just got back from the midnight premiere of the new X-Files film. I'll write more about it probably, but before I go to bed I just wanted to say it's really, really good. And spooky - just the way I like 'em.

Worth your time. I'll be going back to see it again.

Parkour!

My friend Anson emailed me about a series of five webisodes he has recently directed for Dank and Nank (them being, as near as I can tell, a dadaist version of the Odd Couple)

I am not sure I understand it, but I enjoyed it. Hence, I am publicizing it. Dig:

Plus, in real life, Kiefer totally put the smackdown on a Christmas tree.

So on Friday night Kira and I and some friends went and saw the opening-night showing of The Bourne Ultimatum (a film for which, all through the anticipatory months, the proper title eluded me. Consistency is so vital to my subconscious that I only ever remembered it as The Bourne Ubiquity. So it goes). Let me say, front and center, that I really, really enjoyed the movie. I am a fan of the Bourne franchise and I think they managed to maintain the smart action and intrigue of the first two very well. I recommend them all. They hold up to multiple viewings and are worth your time.

But as we left the theater, a question started to form in my mind, and it has kept me a little preoccupied in the days since. So I offer my quandary to the Universe:

Who is more of an absolute badass: Jason Bourne, or Jack Bauer of 24?

This is not as simple as it might seem at first gloss. Yes, of course, Jason Bourne is a mentally-reprogrammed human killing machine, a $30 million rogue assassin with reflexes honed to a keen razor edge. Yes, Jason Bourne can slip effortlessly in and out of identities and countries and has the smarts to completely befuddle the American intelligence establishment.

But, at the beginning of Season Two, Jack Bauer cut a man's head off with a hack saw.

Now, don't get me wrong. On screen we see Jason Bourne accomplish some amazing things with simple household objects. He stabs a man with a pen, knife-fights with a rolled-up magazine, blows a house to smithereens with a toaster, and in this most recent movie he hands a man his ass using a coffee table book and a hand towel. You get the feeling he could invade a small country single-handed armed only with the most recent issue of Martha Stewart's Living. Clearly, Jason Bourne brings a whole new meaning to the phrase "domestic violence."

However, Jack Bauer cut a man's head off. With a hack saw.

Jason Bourne was a government killer. He speaks seemingly uncountable numbers of languages. He has more fake identification than an entire high school graduating class. He can take on an entire room full of armed men and survive.

Nevertheless, Jack Bauer removed a man's head with a hack saw, put the head in a bag like a bowling ball, and handed the bag to somebody after driving across town with it in his car. On network television.

I heard a story once. It goes like this. While Bruce Lee was still alive and teaching kung fu in Hollywood, there was only one student of whom he admitted being afraid. He feared Steve McQueen. He was afraid of Steve McQueen, it is reported, because, in Lee's words, McQueen "simply would never, ever stop." Knock him down, he gets up. Unrelenting. It was unsettling.

To admit this, of course, does not in any sense diminish the total badassness of Bruce Lee. It simply highlights a little-known but universal state of affairs: no matter how bad you are, there is one thing you will come across in your career as a badass that might, just might, give you the freakin' willies.

And so, as I said above, mad props to Jason Bourne, or whatever his real name is. He is certainly bad.

But, at the end of the day, I still think I'll put my money on the hacksaw.












Categories: film, television

Would you let this man take your daughter to the movies?

i sing of Slavoj fuzz and sniff
whose twitching heart rejoiced at, say,
the Lacanian objet pe-tit a

(with apologies to e.e. cummings)

I know this probably makes me something of a heretic, but I feel the urge to admit publicly that I am really much more of a fan of the mid0career Bob Dylan than I am of either his early recordings or his recent PR resuscitation, lingerie ads and all. I am thinking in particular of the mid-80's, slightly-post-Christian phase albums like Empire Burlesque and Infidels.

It's not, of course, that I dislike the early Dylan. It simply strikes me that when everybody (and I mean everybody. English professors and everybody) start going on and on about how much of a genius you are, it might make for a body of work that is easy to mistake. And by mistake I mean, perhaps, not listen to (or not really) even if you have listened to it many, many times. Genius is like that. Genius is where this happens.

I think Dylan knew this. I think that this was behind much of his career self-sabotage, beginning but certainly not limited to the episode where the amps were turned up and everybody booed him off stage.

So I think this is partially why I love those forgotten albums so much. Nobody listens to them (well, I do) and certainly nobody owns 'em (well, I do) and absolutely nobody would tell you with a straight face that they were in fact the only Bob Dylan albums he owned (Yup).

This is not merely me being some sort of perverse music snob (though perhaps it is some of that). The albums, in one sense, are terrible. Dylan looks thoughtful on the cover of Empire Burlesque sporting a blazer he could have easily borrowed from Phil Collins. You can hear overproduction, bad Yamaha synthesizers, and an unfortunate outbreak of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers on some tracks. I fully admit all of this.

But these albums also have tender moments, where the backing band is the Textones and not Tom Petty, and the lyrics simply shine in their masterful brilliance. "Sweetheart Like You" and the insanely sublime "Jokerman" from Infidels would be easy redemption for me, if I wanted to grasp for them at this moment. But I will not.

No. My all time, without a doubt, absolute favorite Bob Dylan song is all the overproduced, Yamaha-infused, Phil-Collins-coated terror I alluded to above. I simply cannot get past how much I admire and esteem "Tight Connection to My Heart."

I just think it is a great song. I sing it in the shower and I cover it sometimes when there is a piano around or I am on stage. And it totally doesn't fit with what you are supposed to love about Bob Dylan.

And this is sort of how I get into the whole notion of Zizek's reading of the Lacanian Real as a disruption of the ideology we're all swimming in that should be shaping who we are entirely, only there is this constantly outbreaking perverse love that just interrupts the whole smoothness of it all and makes you stand in horror and banal joy at the fact that you really do like the back-up singers, the Yamaha synthesizers, even the Phil Collins jacket.

Like the hopeless protagonist of Hitchcock's Vertigo, we are always attempting to dye the hair of our object of desire to make things "right." Which, for me, would be the moment where I say "Yeah, I'm a big Dylan fan" without mentioning the perversity I have now admitted to you all. But there's always that Bell Tower, looming, pulling each of us toward what we least want to admit - the loves we fathom but do not contemplate, except in those moments when the CD shuffles in just the right combination, and Empire Burlesque makes the rotation again.

I Dream of Wires

Years ago, during college, I worked at the campus bookstore. The building the bookstore was in was arranged so that the offices were up a flight of stairs above the sales floor, so when you went up there you could basically see everything going on down below.

So one day, I went up to the office area to drop off some papers or something, and was about to start down the stairs when I stopped dead in my tracks. There, down below - just for an instant - I was sure I saw myself - me - walking there among the stacks.

It was absolutely terrifying.

Now, of course, it turned out to be someone who simply looked like me. But more than this, there was a similarity in gait, in mannerisms, the way he held his head. For that instant, it was convincing. And that instant, consequently, was so unhinged that I remember the feeling of it to this day. Vain creatures though we are, I would venture to say that no human being would suffer well being suddenly confronted with their uncanny doppelganger.

This past weekend was a rather down one for me, and I found myself sticking close to home and doing bread-and-butter stuff like filing and laundry. I didn't go out carousing with friends or any of my normal activities. In other words, I was in a mood to be thoughtful, and I had time to spare.

And I found, for that time and place, perhaps the perfect movie.

It's an odd one. It was an independent film, made for just about $7000, and released back in 2004, and it is kinda science fiction. Only it isn't. And it's kinda like Memento, only it isn't. And sometimes the dialogue is convoluted and it's a bit hard to follow in places and that might make it hard to watch.

Only it isn't. I have now watched it six times, twice with the director's commentary. It holds up.

The film is called Primer. It is extroardinarly difficult to describe, because - despite what it seems to be about (some 'classic' science fiction themes, complete with an ambiguous gizmo that whirs and makes your ears bleed) it is actually an extended meditation on trust, and how you might maintain it (or lose it) when the person you are talking to is not, in fact, who you think they are (or, perhaps I should say, when you think they are).

You will be tempted at this point to Google it and find out what I mean without actually seeing it. My recommendation is, don't. Go to your local hip video shop and rent it and watch it. Twice.

Here's the thing - one of the really cool aspects of this film (as opposed to the slick Hollywood movies where every techno thing is explained and made safe by the dialogue) is that - perhaps - the characters have absolutely no idea what it is that they are dealing with. Part of the joy - the first time through, is trying, with them, to figure it out. The story unfolds with a naturalness and the right balance of keeping the viewer on-track mixed with enough confusion to keep things well beyond interesting the first time through. Then the pleasure (on subsequent viewings) is trying to figure out how you missed the clues that maybe - just maybe - some of the characters aren't so clueless after all.

For a low-budget, first-project film, this film completely exceeds expectations. The story is amazing, the characters are believable and well-acted, and the science is fiction, but its not mumbo-jumbo. You find yourself thinking - just for a minute (or 1,337 minutes, depending where you are) that it might actually work.

What's wrong with our hands?

[ The thing that scared me the most, that day in the bookstore, was the possibility of meeting someone - some me - that knew me completely, that was me completely, and yet I wouldn't know what he was thinking. I wouldn't know, moreover, how or why he was there. I was confronted with the possibility, just for an instant, that this other-that-was-me might know me (my trajectories, my motivations, my reasons) in that moment better than I knew myself. I was terrified at the possibility that I was living in his world, and no longer in mine. ]

Why won't our hands work like normal people?

Tighten the straps. There are always leaks. Every half-meter, everywhere. Everywhere.

What if it actually works?

Categories: film

Carry no pictures.

This has been the week for art films. Went again last night to the Belcourt theater, near my apartment, and watched the epic (and recently unearthed) masterpiece by Jean-Pierre Melville, Army of Shadows (L'armee des Ombres).

Travis and I have discussed Melville before, as both of us are big fans of his incomprehensibly beautiful Le Samourai. There are similarities and differences between the two films. Both are suffused with the tres cool aesthetic and detachment of the French New Wave (though Melville precedes the movement in many key ways), and both refuse the easy narrative linearity of your more run-of-the-mill action-adventure films. But, where Samourai feels at points almost whimsical (or as whimsical as you can get about an ill-fated and star-crossed assassin), there is no whimsy to be had anywhere in Shadows. Do not carry pictures of your daughter. They will be used against you. Carrying cyanide capsules, though, is continually reinforced as a pretty good idea.

The film is about the French Resistance, but it is so unlike your normal Hollywood war film that you might spend much of it unaware of the larger backdrop of World War II. You could, in fact, replace or transpose the story into any conflict with oppression - ancient or contemporary. The film's narrative hangs as tightly together as a Harold Pinter play, and trades on the same sort of ambiguities - both internal and external.

If you see the film (and I think it is well worth going out of your way to see), I recommend you do your best to get carried away with it. I spent the first reel trying to hang the narrative against historical and physical landmarks and it simply got in the way of exploring and enjoying (to the extent one can "enjoy" a film like this) the nuance and breadth of the story. I think it works better for the viewer to simply give in to the ambiguities that the characters o the screen are experiencing. Like us, they do not always know where they are, or why they are there, or what to do next. But the decisions that are made - both by the characters and in the narrative itself - are bold and daring (even if ultimately ill-fated and star-crossed).

While I think, in the end, I prefer Le Samourai, the films complement each other and confirm (as if this needed conformation) Melville's mastery of cinema in all its dark genres.

There's a crack in everything

So. This past weekend was a mix of cinema - the highbrow and the low. And on the balance, the combination was oddly right. Much is still percolating.

First, on Friday, I went to go see the much-ballyhooed and supposedly greatest film of all time, Snakes on a Plane. I first heard of this months ago when my friend Thad told me about it, and others have built the buzz since that time. With all the hype, it was a bit of a mystery to know exactly what to expect. I guess I had hoped it would be this strange, over the top, surreal comedy.

Well, it wasn't that, and it wasn't Tolstoy, either. But it was a reasonably solid, if unremarkable, action-thriller. Plus I enjoy Samuel L. Jackson, and it was a good vehicle for him. So I am pleased I saw it, though I don't think I would pay to see it again.

Which lends one to think: what is it that makes this a well-hyped internet film, but not a "cult" film? I don't feel cheated for seeing it once, but I would not repeat seeing nor encourage my friends to see it. Hmm. I guess I was hoping it would be less like Serpent and the Rainbow (another film which, years ago, had good build-up and was not a repeat-see) and more like Donnie Darko (a film which I would go see again, right now, and tomorrow, too). So that was SoaP.

The next day I went with my pal M. to the Belcourt in the village and we watched I'm Your Man, the film about Leonard Cohen.

I'm thankful to M. for bringing Cohen to my attention. I had always had a vague notion of who he was and the importance he held in American music, but my word, I never knew. I never knew the power of the lyrics he wrote, or how they would deeply affect me.

The movie itself is an interpersal of interviews and photo montages of Cohen with a mix of mostly-Canadian perfomers covering his songs in a tribute-concert setting. Rufus Wainright and Nick Cave are two notables among a solid group of luminaries.

It was interesting. One of the things that has kept me at bay for so long from Cohen was that I didn not like his voice and delivery - so hering these songs performed by others really "worked" for me. It allowed me to concentrate on the devastatingly perfect turns of phrase and poetry. So I liked that part. By contrast, M. found the cover performances somewhat frustrating and occasionally tedious, wishing that there would have been more of the "final payoff": Cohen himself performing (which occurs in one brief sequence - backed by U2 - at the end). I found that contrast in responses interesting, and I appreciated where M. was coming from on that, though I still find Cohen's voice - as opposed to his writing - to be a less-than-ideal showcase for his songs.

As far as those songs go - if you don't know Leonard Cohen, I cannot recommend highly enough that you delve into his writing and songs. Amazing stuff. Simply breathtaking. More than once, in the dark, was wiping away tears.

But I'll still wear the T-shirts

So anyone who knows me basically knows that I am an absolute, beyond the pale, insanely fanatical follower of any and all things having to do with Superman. If you've met me in person, or been to my apartment, or talked to me for any length of time, this is probably obvious. As obsessions go, it's a gentle and lifelong one. I am no latecomer to this. Keep in mind that, in the months leading up to this, I have gotten a little teary-eyed just watching the movie trailers ("They can be a great people, Kal-El, they wish to be... they only lack the light to show them the way..." Ah, it gets me every time).

So I am not speaking off the cuff or without a lot of consideration when I say (and sad I am to have to admit it) that I really, um, was not so taken with the latest installment in the ill-fated Superman movie franchise, Superman Returns.

I'll start by saying I think they definitely made the right casting choice with Brandon Routh. He really surprised me - he managed to inhabit the big shoes left by Chris Reeve and add his own touches as well. So he kept the right "feel" to maintan continutiy with the earlier franchise, but brought his own dignity and goofiness to the Superman/Clark Kent personae. Plus he looks great in the suit. Better than Reeve did (or George Reeves, for that matter).

However, in terms of the story, this felt very much like Superman I - meaning that the character depth and story were pretty flat all around. Worse, many of the "gee whiz" aspects of the story were reminiscent of Superman III (and the never to be mentioned fourth installment). There were lots of plot gaps, and Lex Luthor still comes of as a farce - even with Kevin Spacey in the role. Really. This is the arch enemy of Superman? Hardly.

At nearly two and a half hours, it amazed me that so little was actually said, and so many huge plot holes were left gaping (and some pretty deep messing with the mythology. Supes is basically an absentee father [??!?!] in this installment. He and Lois have apparently had intimate relations, and a relationship [which is not a problem - that has precedent], but when they meet again on the roof of the daily planet, it is as stiff and formal as a tax audit. Weird.)

So, the sad thing is, it's trying really hard to be Spider Man 2, and failing. It should have aspired to Superman II instead.

(and I'm not even going to get into the goldmine of character development, nuance, and mythology they basically tossed away by choosing to ignore the entirety of the last five seasons of Smallville. Really. In light of that whole corpus, the thought of playing Lex Luthor for laughs is just ludicrous. Finally we might get to see him for the scary and tyrannical mastermind he is, with an actor the calibre of Kevin Spacey, no less, and they go trying to make him a bad Gene Hackman copy [and even Gene Hackman should have been allowed to play the role much darker, and could have brilliantly. In both cases, I blame the directors]. Luther's 'master plans' come across as poorly executed science projects. What the HELL people?)

It is sad to say that, with so many years and such good mythology to work from, the earliest Superman movies are still the best Superman movies. On the balance, though, I'll still stick with Smallville. Somebody over in Vancouver seems to be paying attention to the important stuff.

If they decide to make yet another Superman movie, holding on to Brandon Routh and scrapping the screenwriters and perhaps also (though I'm sad to say it, given his excellent work on the X-Men films) Bryan Singer, I'll probably go see it, because that's the kind of guy I am. But my confidence in this franchise is shaken. I'll admit it.

I've still got my DVD box sets and the comic books and old radio shows, though. And yeah, you'll still see me in those t-shirts.

Time passes. That is all. Make sense who may.

It is not lost on me that my final passage to the Roman communion of the church roughly coincides with the centennial of Samuel Beckett's birthday. These are certainly unrelated events in the way that all events are unrelated.

Still, there is something strangely incongrously pleasing about it all. The anniversary snuck up on me. About a month ago I recieved this amazing DVD box set I had ordered, Beckett on Film, and have been exploring that. The plays are both nice to watch and nice to sleep to. I have done both.

Good Friday. Birth, death, new life. Trying to figure things out long after you're well into the process of each. This is appropos of my experiences with Catholicism, with Beckett, with much.