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Out in Theaters: DECODING ANNIE PARKER

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Like looking through a stranger’s photo album, Decoding Annie Parker takes aim at the heartstrings but misses by a country mile. Samantha Morton is tenderly powerful as the titular lead who’s lost a legion of family to the C-word but the film surrounding her is smugly self-satisfied and executed with the gushy panache of a Hallmark Mother’s Day card. Director Steven Bernstein‘s fingers are sticky from the cans of syrup he’s drizzled this sickly memorialization with – from the gag-inducing tearjerker ballads he employs to his frustratingly cloying bedside manner.

With his focus laser-pointing all over a woman so hopelessly hopeful, Bernstein attempts to marry his Oprah Channel intent to the reputation of his subject, but fails to parse said subject from should-be subtext. Had she watched the movie, we imagine the real Mrs. Parker would occasionally yuck over the final product (that is, if she weren’t contracted to peddle this sadness porn.)

Annie Parker is meant to stand in as a statue of feminine stamina: a mother, a daughter, a witness to innumerable loss; a cancer survivor, an amateur researcher, a hairless cuckold; a woman wronged at every turn. She’s seen her mother, sister, and father whisked away at the hands of sickle-wielding cancer and before she’s ever diagnosed, she knows the creeping digit of death is pointing her way next.

Like a certifiably crazed hypochondriac, Annie molests her own breasts hunting for lumps like Indiana Jones for treasure. The way she’s man-handling those tatas, we assume we’ve missed the scene where she wines and dines them. Her visits to the boob doctor’s office are so frequent that she’s essentially the titty-fondling office lucky penny. When she does finally unearth a scoop of tumor in her breastal region, the doctor tells her, “Stage 3. Quite advanced.” The lesson: vigilance doesn’t pay?

Annie drops knowledge bombs on the doctor along the lines of, “My grandma, mom, and sister all had breast cancer, there must be a genetic connection!” to which the doctor gives her the equivalent of a head pat and a pair of eyes that say, “I’m sorry, did you say your education stopped after your high school diploma?” Cue: more frustration.

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Helen Hunt
then shows up as some feminist Joan of Arc scientist/superdoctor, willing to burn in a conflagration of peer-reviewed journals to prove that breast cancer is as hereditary as genital alopecia or Down’s Syndrome. The guy in charge of handing out what would be her grant money might as well be Annie Parker’s dickish doctor’s son though, because he’s apparently received the same gene that allows him to cast glares at women and their “breast cancer” with all the glib sympathy of “Are we done here?”

At this point, Bernstein knows exactly what his audience wants and delivers a deliciously juicy montage of chemo-fatigue, hair loss of the wispy variety and vomiting green goo into bed pans. He’s trying to twist our arm into surrendering tears but his power is weak and his tactic folly. You sit there and take it but can’t help but shrug when the pity wave washes over you. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not sympathy I lack so much as tolerance for trivializing trauma in such a ho-hum manner.

Though Hunt is nothing shy of unremarkable (especially when taken in the context of her stunning performance in 2012’s The Sessions), Morton brings sympathy and full-bodied authenticity to Annie Parker. She’s a trooper, a patented solider on the warpath with breast cancer and her “aw shucks” earnesty does nothing but earn our favor. While Hunt feels dilatory and cold-blooded, Morton fleshes things into the realm of the real complete with the comedy and tragedy that occupies the randomness of life. Other characters though feel short-changed.

Give me more Aaron Paul with butt-length hair (and less Aaron Paul in deep-set eyeliner) or another serving of that spunkified Rashida Jones – apparently just freed from what must have been a long tenure in Macy’s makeup department. But no, everything is glossed and glossy- nothing more so than the timeline in Bernstein’s film. He gives each scene a few minutes to establish who’s dying now and then floats to the next tearjerker before allowing the last one to sink in. A cracked out Easter bunny doesn’t hop around as much as this noob. As he bounds from month to month, year to year without allowing us to get a feel for the dynamics or chemistry between the characters, we lose synch with anything and everything, save for Morton’s tasteful characterization of Annie Parker.

Bernstein works the movie like a circus clown, loading suckerpunch after suckerpunch into his cinematic cannon, but they strike with dull thuds. His pleads for heartbreak hardly break a sweat; his swings of outrage leave us unscathed. He’s the Superman of indifference, the Flash of going nowhere fast. Ostensibly about cancer, this movie is actually about throwing a pity party and pillow fighting your way out of it to an N’Sync soundtrack.

D+

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Restored and Revisited: Godzilla (1954) Celebrates 60 Years


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has long stood as a universal symbol of destruction – a mighty metaphorical monstrosity whose roots are embedded so deep into the cultural zeitgeist that few corners of the world would be caught unfamiliar with the city-toppling beast. With over 28 films featuring his prehistoric personage, countless pop culture references and a slew of television, comics, video game, and toy appearances featuring the original kaiju, generation after generation have been clued into the lasting impact of this reptilian icon. But even with such a long line of successors, no film in its pantheon – or in the monster movie oeuvre at large – has left as large a footprint in the world of film and pop culture as Ishrio Honda‘s original 1954 Godzilla. Today, you may be able to pick out a man in a rubber suit but the satirical and tragic symbolism live on in robust, fiery glory.

Rialto Pictures have spearheaded this latest restoration in junction with the film’s 60th anniversary. Their previous endeavors have included such films as Breathless, The Battle of Algiers and The Third Man and have earned them the title of “gold standard of reissue distributors”. With their latest clean-up, the Godzilla of the past looks fit for the big screen again.

As all films age, they lose their original sparkle and dazzle. Not only does a shift towards new groundbreaking technology date older films in the context of the latest and greatest but the original material itself loses its cinematic punch over time. Sound gets stuck in its throat, pictures fuzz and skip, the film becomes washed out. Like a debutante out of her prime, it sags. You’ll be happy to hear then that this newest makeover of Godzilla looks and sounds, quite simply, rip roaring. The bellows have bark, the black-and-white cinematography has bite and the picture, all captured in gloriously old-fashion Academy ratio, is as epic as ever. Though some larger scale set pieces look like they could have been filmed in a sudsy bathtub, the chaotic swirl of Honda’s camera locks you tight in the moment. Dated or no, Godzilla is still a behemoth to behold.  

For those who’ve never actual seen the film, a quick plot synopsis. When a skiff full of fishermen sinks into the sea under mysterious circumstances – with a bubbling vortex reminiscent of a Kraken’s turning the crew to screaming jetsam – authorities are left baffled, and wives and children are left to cry and swoon. As the town seeks an answer, only an elderly islander can rightly identify the beast lurking in their waters. Godzilla, he mutters. Godzilla.

As the buzz of rumors swarm the town, Godzilla finally reveals himself a fire-breathing menace to the scurrying populace of Japan’s coastal regions and greatest cities. A tangential subplot involving young Japanese maiden Emiko and her beloved, but not betrothed, salvager, Hideto Ogata, takes us through the human end of this larger-than-life saga. As Hideto and Emiko flirt around revealing their forbidden love to Emiko’s archeologist father, Serizawa, to whom Emiko is engaged, invents a weapon capable of bringing down the beast that’s bringing down their city. Young love lives in one corner while mass destruction is pondered a few doors down. The juxtaposition of such youthful hope against calloused calamity feeds the tension to Serizawa’s conundrum. If he is to use the likes of such a catastrophic weapon, it would unveil a new level of destructive prowess to the world’s already thirsty superpowers. But the alternative involves the likely death and destruction of his entire country. Decisions, decisions.


This junction of themes of war-time morality, superstitious mythology and thoughtful historical reflection are set against a Japan decidedly haunted by Big Boy. Godzilla even looks like a nightmarish atomic bomb personified. Unnaturally pot-bellied and rounded out like the ghastly hourglass of the world’s most destructive weapon, his figure itself portends destruction.

As a metaphor for WWII-era America, the beastly, thoughtless rampager seems less a condemnation of Japan’s former enemies than an admission of invitation. Honda’s is a film that doesn’t place blame on the enemy for Japan’s history. Rather, Honda takes head-hanging responsibility for Japan’s great calamity. Godzilla is a dark beast awoken, his vengeance hot, his destruction wanton but warranted. Honda’s song is solemn and ponderous, his voice rings through Serizawa’s soulful mantra. There’s a remorseful sense of deservedness to Honda’s waxing morality.

Gojira (Japan’s word for Godzilla) is a hybrid of two Japanese words: gorira, meaning gorilla, and kujira, meaning whale. Originally, Godzilla was seen as a whale-like figure come to roam Japan’s shorelines after a bout of radioactive alteration. It seems a far cry from the spiny, T-Rex-like monster we’re familiar with today, but Godzilla does live on as a whale of a property. With a new version to hit theaters on May 16 of this year and who knows how many more on the horizon, we’re left hoping that the spirit of Honda’s brooding black-and-white monsterpiece can be replicated, or at least properly homaged going into the future. For those who are longtime fans or still unfamiliar with this original classic, be sure to make it out to see Godzilla roam the big screen. Otherwise, you might have to wait for the 75th or, God forbid, 100th anniversary.

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Weekly Review 45: DEVIL, PARANORMAL, DIVING, WOLVES

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A relatively light week at the theaters in which I saw Chef (review to follow), Paul Walker‘s last completed project Brick Mansions (buhuh) and a half-way decent horror movie that’s failed to make much of an impression at the box office, The Quiet Ones. Aside from those you’ll find below, I also revistied The Amazing Spiderman at home to prepare for the screening this week and will briefly say that aside from the the smart casting of Andrew Garfield and Emma Stone, it really has very little to offer. The screwball plotline, Glasgow-grinnin’ Lizard and henious score alone are enough to retire this to the anals of the unnecessary (and thank God that Denis Leary‘s character is dead). Oh and I also quickly became obsessed with Comedy Central‘s Review, a brilliant comedy series in which Andrew Daly plays a man that reviews not food, books or movies but life experiences. Definitely check it out.

I SAW THE DEVIL (2010)

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A deliciously devious tale of revenge, Kim Jee-woon‘s I Saw the Devil shows South Korea for the bold cinescape it truly is. Kaleidoscopically epic, hopelessly violent and ruthlessly vengeful to a fault, this two-and-a-half revenge saga tells the tale of a special ops agent, Kim Soo-hyeon (Byung-hun Lee) who seeks retribution against the twisted serial killer (Mik-sik Choi of Oldboy) who raped and decapitated his pregnant wife. As he becomes a bona fide hunter of the criminally lecherous, Kim loses himself in a battle with his own soul. The blood drips bright stripes of red, complimenting the engrossing, challenging and yet playful story from Hoon-jung Park. With each new South Korean film I encounter, I get more and more addicted. Next up: The Man from Nowhere, New World andThe Good, The Bad and the Weird.

A-

PARANORMAL ACTIVITY: THE MARKED ONES (2014)

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There’s not much to say about this newest installment/first spin-off of the Paranormal Activity camp aside from mentioning the fact that if you’ve liked/put up with the earlier installments, this is just more of the same. It fleshes out some of the mythology but in no concrete or truly satisfying way. It’s like the ending of a lesser Lost episode that just leaves you with more questions than answers. There are moments where it seemed like director Christopher Landon dared to go in a whole new direction (the Chronicle-esque subplot was easily the film’s best moments) but eventually turned into your standard, if not subpar, PA movie.

C-

THE DIVING BELL AND THE BUTTERFLY (2007)

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Somber and brave, much like the film’s subject, The Diving Bell and The Butterfly takes the perspective of Jean-Dominique Bauby who suffered a massive stroke that resulted in a rare case of “locked-in syndrome”. If the name “locked in syndrome” sounds kinda shitty, you don’t know the half of it. Bauby didn’t lost any mental acuity but became so deeply paralyzed that he became unable to speak or move – that is, all but his left eye. With only the power of blinking, Bauby learns to communicate through long-winded sessions with a caring therapist. Julian Schnabel’s film charters the many lives he touched and how he went on to write a touching memoir, all through opening and closing his one bloodshot eye. More similar in tone and style to The Sessions than My Left Foot (and glisteningly ripe for a parody title of My Left Eye) The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is a deeply soulful and philosophical venture that explores what it means to be human in wonderfully simplistic terms yet it never quite offers the caliber of showmanship, in front of or behind the camera, to muster up the tears – or emotional gut punching – you might expect it to elicit.

B

BIG BAD WOLVES (2014)

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Quentin Tarantino named this Israeli thriller/black comedy the best film of 2013, earning it a place on many a movie buff’s radar. Perhaps the expectation of greatness and Tarantino’s stamp of approval led to my ultimate disappointment with the film but I’d like to think that it has more to do with quality issues than my going into it with preconceived notions. The story is certainly one that would catch Tarantino’s eye: a teacher framed for raping and murdering little girls is kidnapped and tortured by a victim’s father and a roguish detective. But the film runs aground a slew of narrative issues and is saddled with mostly poor performances from the Israeli crew, most notably from Rotem Keinan who plays “is he or isn’t he?” rapist/murderer Dror. Watching a man’s fingers gets smashed to bits by a hammer or his sternal charred by a blow torch should be torture to watch but Keinan always looks like a man who’s stubbed his toe. It just didn’t work for me. There’s enough intrigue and tension to keep affairs interesting throughout but it’s certainly not a film that I would run out to recommend to anyone unless they’re dying of curiosity.

C

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Out in Theaters: BRICK MANSIONS

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A silver lining to Paul Walker‘s death: the world has been spared a Brick Mansion‘s sequel (2 Brick 2 Mansion?). This rat-faced nincompoop of an actioner begs for franchise play with hands outstretched like a Cambodian child with a nub for a leg, hawking tin whistles and salivating for a hot bowl of gruel. You pity it, look down on it, wish that someone out there in the world had the decency to clean it up, give it a good meal and place a little Grinch pat on its misshapen Cindy Lou Who head. If someone served up this movie to the Grinch, you better believe his heart would have shrunk three sizes. Had Brick Mansions been my sad, dilapidated child, I would have never let it leave the house dressed like such a drunken buffoon and whoever did was borderline abusive (to its unsuspecting audience most of all). Like the inhabitants of the eponymous Brick Mansions (a walled in ghetto distinct of Detroit), everyone involved in making this failing, flailing, faltering deuce of a movie must have been on mild to “Chase the dragons!” amounts of sweet black tar heroin.

Brick Mansions is a movie so discordantly dull, so mindlessly thickheaded, so enduringly tongue-tied that bounding from plot point to plot point is an exercise in parkour itself. From a French man, who is over and over again referred to as such, trying his (half-hearted) hardest at an American accent (WHY?!) to Wu Tang Clan’s finest actor, RZA, slicin’ and dicin’ up red pepper after red pepper (don’t ask), there’s just no amount of yarn to string together the many cacophonous plot elements. And RZA? Seriously?

From the performance to the character itself, RZA is everything wrong with the film. He enunciates through a mouthful of marbles, the well-manicured fine-point beard that is his face drooping like a guy hopped up on Vicodin and about seven bong rips deep. His “performance” is the equivalent of purple drank – it’s mind numbing and will fill you with regret. Watching him act is like being roofied. It’s supposed to hurt so good but leaves you clutching at your hind parts. How anyone keeps handing this guys roles is a mystery for the likes of the Twilight Zone.  

Co-star David Belle, as the incessantly dim but limber-legged Lino, is equally as interesting as a pet rock. For a man who all but invented parkour, Belle’s acting abilities couldn’t be more out of line with his impressive physical feats of physics-defying gymnastics. As he zips and flips off walls, crawlspaces, and rooftops, he’s like a firecracker in action. When he’s poised to spit out a line, he’s a man who trips over his shoelace at the report of a starting pistol. And even his “amazing” ventures of athletic prowess are edited down to footloose irrelevance.  

Parkour loses its “kour” – read: core, as in hardcore (*guitar solo*) – when it’s split up into millisecond by millisecond snippets. A sequence involving a guy who sprints off a building grabs a ladder, swings down that ladder and smashes through a window would look patently hardcore if captured in one fluid shot. Having said that, I would pay good money to see Alfonson Cuaron’s Brick Mansions. What we get instead is a sharp series of events shot from different angles, smashed together so haphazardly and so mindlessly that each piece of the puzzle looks rehearsed to death and wallpapered with safety nets. Anyone can edit a sequence together to achieve the unreal but few people can actually achieve the unreal. Camille Delamarre‘s hackneyed direction robs any and all thrills from what would be otherwise breathtaking entertainment of the simpleton variety, the likes of a daring YouTube video or a David Blane stunt.

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Oh Jesus, we haven’t even gotten to the plot. Just imagine Fast and Furious snuck Dredd into a showing of Dances With Wolves. All the horrid cliches are there, waving their hands over their heads like fools, begging to be recognized and called on.

Roguish undercover cop playing fast and loose with government resources? Check. Misrepresented noble savage in the form of heroine-shooting ghetto dwellers? Check. Bringing only fists to a gun fight? Check. Oh, and unlikely duo. Double check!

We’re so many layers deep in the knock-off assembly line that Brick Mansions doesn’t mind stealing from ANOTHER FUCKING PAUL WALKER MOVIE – the original Fast and Furious, which in turn stole from Point Break which probably ripped off a caveman’s painting somewhere down the line. There’s so little to the plot developments that explaining it is just a waste of your time and mine. Just take my word when I say that after Brick Mansions, we’ve now witnessed one of the dumbest movies of the year.

See a flat-chested Russian brute fight two men leaping around like flying squirrels, a vaguely foreign woman chained to a ticking bomb that’s in turn hogtied to a USSR-era Russian nuke and car chases that sprout out of thin air … .because Paul Walker (*guitar solo*)!!! Also, acting on par with The Canyons.

Precariously balancing on Walker’s already not-so-gilded legacy, this is nothing short of an embarrassment for all involved. Brick is so recklessly conceived and shoddily written that by the end of it, it’s as if the writers entirely forgot what movie they were making in the first place. Plot resolutions are such an afterthought that pretty much everything wraps up with a shrug and a “Nah, JK!” In all its detestable glory, it’s a shining example of cocktail napkin scribbles gone horribly wrong, now complete with a happily ever after ending so flat and lifeless that you’ll be pining to watch a Rush Hour marathon in its stead.

It’s a ton of fun, if your idea of fun is wasting an hour and thirty minutes of your life. Brick tries out a few jokes here and there – mostly backflip-centered – but the real joke is on you for seeing the damn thing. This is a movie destined for the recycling bin, begging to be forgotten after it earns its keep, and crossing its fingers at Walker’s legacy equating to box office bucks. The sad reality is that the execs behind it are probably doing a smug little victory dance since this probably would have gone straight to Redbox if not for Walker’s early exit.

D-

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Documentary Dossier: JODOROWSKY’S DUNE

Four critics were sitting in AMC’s Pacific Place Theater 7 when I walked in. It was instantly noticeable: a strange, syncopated rhythm of staticky beat-box. Kind of like the sound you hear when you rim the audio jack on a speaker system with your finger. The crackling and buzzing grew worse as we sat, until it was operating at about four beats per second. More critics walked into the cramped space, all to the same static, electronic concerto. Louder and louder it grew until even thoughts became inaudible. Then it stopped, and Jodorowsky’s Dune began.

 

Alejandro Jodorowsky is what results when lunacy is inbred with sadistic perversion. He’s an acid trip embodied. His ideas are just as wild. As you watch him throw his thoughts around, you can’t figure out if he disgusts you or thrills you. He’s reminiscent of the old homeless folk you run into on a public bus, the type that’s dying to tell you his crackpot theory: Jesus Christ is building a golden city in the sewer and George W. Bush killed Franz Ferdinand.

The French-Chilean director is teethy. A spritely 85 years old, his blindingly white grin is huge. His choppers spread from his mouth like a horse’s smile. His hair flops around as he gesticulates wildly, describing his imaginations and mental illusions. His “r’s” roll off his tongue with the weight of bowling barrels. But those bright pearly whites draw you in.

Jodorowsky’s Dune is about this man’s failed journey to create Dune, a film adaptation of Frank Herbert’s 1965 science fiction novel of the same title. Early on, Jodorowsky tells us, “I never read Dune.” The film is more a face-to-face conversation than it ever is documentary. Jodorowsky and the crew he assembled to make Dune, as well as a clan of historians and filmmakers, sit in front of the camera to recount how Dune was never made. At one point, a cat wanders into the scene. He picks it up and just keeps going.

“What is the goal of life? It’s to create yourself a soul. For me, movies are an art, more than industry. And it’s the search of the human soul, as painting, as literature, as poetry.” Jodorowsky walks us through the history, about half the time in English, the rest in Spanish. He tells us he wanted to create a movie that causes an experience equivalent to that of an LSD trip. In Dune, he wanted to create a prophet.

He pulls a massive book—the size of two phonebooks—from his shelves: Dune is written in big white font on the cover, overlaying a drawing of a zebra-striped purple and yellow spaceship. Contained within this monumental bible are all the scenes, concept art, scripts, storyboards that were never brought to life. Drive’s director, Nicolas Winding Refn, explains how Jodorowsky once showed him the book. “I’m the only guy who ever saw Jodorowsky’s Dune… Let me tell you something. It is awesome.

Jodorowsky’s goal is to rape our minds, he says, and slowly, he inseminates you. What starts out as a lunatic’s ranting soon becomes an exploration into the soul’s deepest crevasses. Brave director Richard Stanley tells us that Dune’s the greatest movie never made, and we have a hard time believing him. Then, we see Dune.

A design by H.R. Giger for Jodorowsky’s Dune that was incorporated in Alien

Just as he somehow recruited famous artists Pink Floyd, H.R. Giger, Michel Seydoux, Orson Welles, Salvador Dali (who requested $100,000 a minute), Chris Foss, Jean Giraud, and even forced his own son to do years of martial arts to star in the film, he sucks you into his cosmos. What begins as an impossible dream becomes an insatiable reverie. Jodorowsky becomes the drug, the hallucinogen that pulls you into his world-bending soulscape. He’s Alfonso Cuaron with Jules Verne’s imagination and Hitler’s ambition.

Somehow, he fits all the pieces together, and then everything falls apart. As written, Dune would have been 14 hours, it would have cost millions, and no one wanted to finance it. We weren’t ready. We weren’t equipped. We weren’t worthy.

Hollywood told Alejandro he couldn’t join in the fun. You can’t play with us, Hollywood said. Little did they know, he built the playground. The woodchips and tree scrap they were rolling around on? His design; his team of artists and writers and producers went on to work in the industry, infecting the film world with Alejandro. Movies like Alien, Blade Runner, The Matrix, any sci-fi or blockbuster film, they’ve all been influenced by Jodorowsky’s failed dream.

Jodorowsky—this insane old perverted Spaniard dripping with crazy—pulls the world as we know it apart and then forces it back together with his hands, like an accordionist rending the world with every note. Dune was some sort of calamity, a virtual reality, a rift in time, a temporal split of magnanimous proportions. Jodorowsky broke the universe into two when he set about making his film; we’re just living in the reality where we got Star Wars instead.

So the playground carries on, not with him but within him. Somehow, he became the prophet he set out to make. Shine us with your light Alejandro. How glorious it is!

When Jodorowsky’s Dune ended, it was as if my mind was set free. Not so much as a spiritual or metaphysical awakening, just an awakening to the mind and soul. I couldn’t stop thinking. Jodorowsky had convinced me just like everyone else who clung to this doomed project. His charm, his conviction and passion, somehow it opened my eyes to the world. I began to rethink everything. Maybe that static beat-box had a purpose. Maybe that was Alejandro’s way of communicating to us, of implanting that initial seed, of reaching through space and time. Maybe that was an alternate universe Jodorowsky trying to connect. “Hello? You can hear me?”

Jodorowsky raped my mind. And I loved it. Yeah. Or maybe that’s just the Stockholm Syndrome talking.

A

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Talking with Fernando Coimbra of A WOLF AT THE DOOR

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2014 looks to be the year of the twisted headline movie. With Kumiko the Treasure Hunter, we saw the real life story of a doomed Japanese misanthrope come to America and damned to stubborn and horrifying resilience. The Monument’s Men and Cesar Chavez brought horror to the screen for all the wrong reasons (*yawn*). Fernando Coimbra‘s A Wolf at the Door (“O Lobo atrás da Porta”) is similarly based upon a true story of relationships gone terribly awry, charged by a headline that will leave you in shock and awe. To be any less than stunned, stupefied and all but weeping in a depressed pile of nauseous disgust is less than human. Intrigued?

 

Then you might want to look into A Wolf at the Door, which opened at last season’s Toronto International Film Festival before moving to the Zurich Film Fest, The Brazil Film Fest of Paris and Minneapolis-St. Paul International Film Festival. During its journey around the world, it has left viewers largely haunted. I chatted with Fernando to talk about his TIFF success, Greek tragedy, Brazilian film, women’s rights and murder. Be warned, spoilers are included in the interview.

You mentioned that you see ‘A Wolf at the Door’ as kind of a twist on the Medea story. Do you see it more as a modernized take or a distinctly Brazilian take on that Greek tragedy?

Fernando Coimbra: Yeah, the film was inspired by a true story that happened in Rio De Janeiro. And I had read about this story, and there are similar narratives to Medea the Greek tragedy. I thought that was interesting because of the drama, and details, and then the tragedy at the end. But the inspiration was this true story. It’s not an adaptation because a lot of things are different in the story. The way she killed the girl, the way she got close to the mother. It’s very similar to what happened in the true story.

Wow I didn’t even know that it was a true story.

FC: It repeats sometimes. Before shooting the film there was another story that was very similar to this story.

And this is in Brazil as well, the more recent story?

FC: Yeah, it was in Brazil and it was in Rio De Janeiro. Same town, same place.

Do you see this as a distinctly Brazilian/Rio De Janeiro film? This story, do you see it as something that could only happen here?

FC: No, I think the story could happen anywhere. It talks about very basic instincts and very basic emotions that I think every human being has. That’s why I wanted to tell the story. When I read about the story, the old newspapers and all the press treated Bernando like a monster, like a beast, like a kind of non-human being. I think it’s a passionate crime. It’s something very close to us. I want to tell the story to understand how humans could behave like that. I think it could happen in any culture. Medea is a Greek tragedy that is very basic to all human beings.

Was the forced abortion part of the real story as well or was that something you added?

FC: I decided to make the film from two different points of view because they tell different stories. The men never thought about the abortion because originally he had never harmed her. But in court she said it happened in a very similar way as it happens in the film.

Wow. So, one of the things you play with very early on is this idea of the unreliable narrator. From the get-go we’re getting these three different tellings of the same story that don’t necessarily make sense in the context of one another. We know that somebody is making something up. As we go on, Rosa becomes the main narrative thread and her tale becomes almost a reality. From my initial reading of the film, not knowing that it was based on a true story, I felt there was room for doubt in her version of the story. Was that at all intentionally on your part? For instance, maybe the whole abortion thing was made up or maybe, in the context of this film, she never committed that heinous final crime. Or do you see it as more cut and dry than that?

FC: Yes, I want the audience to doubt. I begin the film at the police station and I present all the characters because you don’t know at this moment who’s telling the truth, who they really are, if they’re telling their version of the story. You haven’t seen their lives and their relationships. People sometimes think, ah this is true, but you never know because of the two points of views. He could be lying, she could be lying. We don’t know what’s happened between them.

The film deals with some rather dark subject matter: the murder of children, forced abortions. Do you see that as an obstacle to getting the film into larger markets or do you think this is a film that people are prepared to see?

FC: I think when you are ready to screen the film to film professionals it works very well with that audience. But for bigger screenings, you worry if it’s gonna be a problem. But once you get into the story and understand it, you aren’t as shocked by the crime. It’s a challenge because when you tell the story, you get a little bit afraid. It’s so brutal. But when you see the film you see that it’s not so bad.

The way you film it, it’s like this John Steinbeck moment where she’s putting the child down in almost the nicest way possible. She takes it like, “Oh just look at the ground honey, everything will be ok”. She’s not doing it out of hostility but it seems to her like a necessity. Obviously the film relies heavily on the actors because it’s more about characters than anything else. I was wondering what your approach was to directing your actors. Did you leave them alone for most of it to do their work or were you more hands on with them?

FC: I worked a lot with them. We did a lot of research before shooting. We worked very hard on the rehearsals and they’re really great actors. We had to work together and find forms of acting that are very intimate. I used to be an actor. I’m not an actor anymore because I’m not a good actor. (Laughter) It would’ve been a lot different if I didn’t have the right actors for it.

Absolutely. So, one of the things that the film deals with is this issue of women’s rights. It’s one of the subtexts that continues throughout the film, giving a voice to women who maybe in other situations would be more demonized. Were you trying to make any particular statement about women’s rights or was that more incidental?

FC: It was not the main thing in my mind. I know that I talk about forced abortions, rape, when the child has problems, money problems, and the rights of the woman to have an abortion or not. Men kind of dominate the mind of society about these things. This is part of society but I know that it’s become part of the subject of the film.

I’ll admit to not knowing too much about Brazilian cinema. Can you give me some examples of works from Brazilian cinema that have inspired you, or that you grew up on?

FC: There are some directors from the 60’s and 70’s that I like a lot. One of them is maybe the best director that we have: Wagner Rocha. He was a great director, very different than my films. He has inspired my films. There’s another director that has a name that does not look Brazilian. It’s Leon Ishmael. He did a film in the suburbs in the 60’s based on a Brazilian play-writer that was all about passion and relationships and tragedy. He really inspired me about the way to shoot this film.

Do you plan on continuing to make movies in Brazil or do you think you’ll ever try Hollywood on for size?

FC: I have a lot of projects in Brazil that are starting to develop. But I have talked about some projects in Hollywood. The film Wolf at the Door got a great reaction so agencies and managers are talking about some new stuff. I cannot say now because we never know. What I have now… it’s perfect in Brazil and I’m starting to write some new projects. I hope it goes far.

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Out in Theaters: JOE

Joe populates a stretch of XL bible belted, confederate flag-waving backwoods Texas with rapists and murders of the worst degree, painting a picture so unrelenting bleak that a repeat drunk driver that spends his days in whore houses and/or dog fighting is our closest thing to a hero. It’s a place where slavery may as well have been yesteryear, where molestation lurks around every corner, where hope goes to die. It’s a small nowheresville of inexplicable evil. Like a flash sideways where Jack didn’t cork the Island’s malevolent juju (“Lost” reference alert). Joe lives in a land where morals come to roast on skewers and are snacked on by open-mouthed buffoons. This is Kentucky Fried hell. But even hell must have its fallen angels. Read More

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Out in Theaters: TRANSCENDENCE

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Every once in a blue moon an unsung talent breaks out of their wheelhouse to extraordinary results.  Quentin Tarantino famously emerged from a video store, learning his craft at the film school of VHS rentals. Ron Howard was a can-kicking child actor before stepping in to direct acclaimed films like Apollo 13, Rush and Academy Award winner A Beautiful Mind. Even Japanese auteur and samurai-lordship himself Akira Kurosawa trained as a painter before ever stepping behind a camera. The lesson is: great directors can come from pretty much anywhere. Wally Pfister, longtime cinematographer for Christopher Nolan (another cinebuff who did not receive formal film school education) and head hancho of Transcendence, has spent the better part of two decades behind a camera. But this is the first time he’s sat in the black foldout chair etched with the word “director.” In this 100 million dollar dry run of his, he’s all but sullied the name.

Pfister directs Transcendence with the style of a National Geographic cinematographer. He looms on intimate nature shots – drops of water claim close ups like they’re signing off Sunset Boulevard – before casting panoramic crane shots of jumbled mountains cloaked in forest or tumbleweed-kicking stretch of desert lit up by solar panels as far as the eye can see. Pfister’s settings are beautifully lighted and wonderfully scenic but they still feel like the work of a DP showing off in full masturbatory fashion. Any certifiable director would have slashed wasted minutes lingering on Kodak moments without blinking.

While Pfister flexes his eye for topography, the story beats from screenwriter Jack Paglen quickly become the biggest point of contention. Paglen’s plot follows Dr. Will Caster (Johnny Depp), a brilliant scientist on the verge of breaking new ground on AI technology that will forever change the world. Talked into a presentation to secure grant money by wife and partner Evelyn (Rebecca Hall), Will (Paglen’s cipher) brings up some interesting questions about our relationship to technology. Since SkyNet, we’ve had a general distrust of technology overtaking their human creators. The threat lies in supremacy. While human minds are capped by biological limitations, machines face no such boundaries (a theme that Spike Jonze‘s Her explored in much simpler and yet more compelling and grandiose terms). This goes on to become the central theme of the movie: can we trust technology that outgrows us?

As one might expect, not everyone in Paglen’s tale thinks an all-powerful machine is a good thing so anti-technology, terrorist network Rift, lead by an inexcusably bleach blonde Kate Mara, are willing to do whatever it takes to prevent a future that involves Terminators, the Matrix, and whatnot. Cue an assassination attempt on Will that proves slowly successful (radiation poisoning FTW!). Will’s ticking clock leads Evelyn to take the next step in their research by “uploading” Will’s consciousness into the existing model of AI, code name PIMM. While his body withers and dies, his “self” is transferred into a super computer. Colleague and trusted friend of the Crasters, Max Waters (Paul Bettany), says that the thing in the computer ain’t Will no more but Evelyn just won’t hear it. Like Joaquin Phoenix, she’s seduced by Depp’s Him.

And speaking of Depp, can we all just finally own up to the fact that he’s just not a good actor? He depends on hairdos to express his emotional status (also, why does every movie scientist need at least one scene with frazzled bedhead?) and not caked in makeup or prancing around a Tim Burton set, he’s just dull to watch. Even without the weird, he’s still oppressively meh. It doesn’t help that his lines and those of his co-stars sound like they were scrawled into a napkin hours before shooting. Some of Paglen’s philosophy masks itself as high concept but with dialogue this trawling, Paglen reveals his cupboard isn’t filled with China. Pfister, likewise, proves inept at directing his actors, a cast that by all means ought to bring more to the table than they do. As things are, they’re like the guests who all cheaped out and brought baguettes to a wine party.

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Pfister’s begged and borrowed a cast from cohort Nolan only to have nothing to do with them. Morgan Freeman only seems here to give a brief voice over (that adds nothing to the film). Otherwise, he looks confused and is always a few minutes behind the other characters. He looked more engaged in his infamous Now You See Me interview than he is here. Cillian Murphy, on the other hand, just has absolutely nothing to do. He might be an under-appreciated talent but not so much that he would sign off for such a flat and lifeless role ad nauseum. Are production re-writes to blame or was Pfister cashing in favors across the board? I guess we’ll never know.

Act one and two have their issues but are by-in-large competently compelling bites of fiction, especially in the context of the ghastly third act. When Pfister, Depp and Co. round the bases and start the journey to home plate, everything gets totally sacked. Rome wasn’t build in a day but it sure could burn in one. Like Will’s late stage admission that “There’s not enough power!”, the internal logic of the film goes haywire in a thoughtless ending that I still can’t make heads or tails of. Instead of offering up an earned and earnest conclusion, Pfister and Paglen eschew explanation like a student who’s “dog ate their homework”. It’s as unsatisfying as one pringle, as tasteless as a whole wheat bun.

Plot mechanics are omnipresent and omnipotent until the script demands it not so, characters unfold incompatible reveals without satisfying explanation, and by the end… well it’s hard to even say how the thing even ended but I’m pretty sure the Apes won? It’s like if Inception had forgone the spinning top for a closing shot of a grinning Leo clone. Keep the WTFs in the can of worms please. Pfister’s shown he can replicate Nolan in broad strokes but, like an AI’s inability to prove its self-awareness, he misses the inexplicable piece that makes a story feel human… oh, and good.

C-

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Out in Theaters: DOM HEMINGWAY

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Bozer, loser Dom Hemingway may be renown for his safe-cracking fingers, but they don’t get an entire soliloquy dedicated to them like his little Dom does. In riotous, far-out hyperbolization, a madcap Jude Law as Dom describes his lowers bits with the candid immodesty of a Manson Family member. The camera jammed tight in his spittle-frothing face, he professes his undying love for his nethers. His Johnson is his fleshy David, his uncut Mona Lisa, his pube-riddled Sistine Chapel. It’s his masterpiece. You don’t hear of screenwriting lessons that teach starting a movie on a three minute penis-focused speech but after Dom Hemingway, they should. It’s a glorious beginning, a magnificently off-kilter snickerfest and character magnification that showcases Law’s brilliance in the role and the boldly misanthropic directions writer/director Richard Shepard is willing to take us. Oh and it turns out that during this whole sequence, Hemingway is being orally pleasured by a dude with a cheap mexistach. The movie could have ended there and been an A+.

After Hemingway receives prison-grounds fellatio, talking through the whole sexventure, we’re given a rock-hard idea of who he is and the extent of his unscrupulousness. He’s the kind of guy who answers phone calls during sex or cuts you off and then gives you the finger or waxes philosophy on his junk while his prison bitch is forced to satiate him. That meticulously claustrophobic, tantalizingly verbose opening scene is our window into Dom’s mordant soul. In his eccentric vernacular, everything is a delicious metaphor, a roundabout simile caked in cusses and c-words.  In another world, he may have been a poet. In this one, he’s getting blowies from dudes in lockup. Such is life.

Outside the prison walls, he dresses like a booze cruise skipper and stomps around town with the purpose of an avenging cuckold. The first thing he does after release is clomp to the auto shop to brutally beat down the man who married his ex-wife. Dom’s actions are that of a world-class megalomaniac with a chip the size of a hatchet on his shoulder. There he stands with bloody hands over the man who raised his bastard daughter and took care of his heart-broken wife. 12 years waiting didn’t work for her so she moved on. Dom, in this and other matters, has not.

He’s a man out of touch with the world. From iPhones to women’s rights, he’s can’t seem to navigate what has become of the world he once was the cream of the crop of. From one scene to the next, it’s Hemingway’s inability to cipher the world of prison rules from outside civilization that gets him so quickly into deep doo-doo. His uncaged loquaciousness is both his charm and his worst enemy, a truth known by colleague and unlikely friend Dickie (Richard E. Grant). While Dom whittled away years in the joint for keeping his uncommonly large trap shut, Dickie whispers assurances of fortune and glory upon his release. Cue a wonderfully tense meeting of the minds as Dom comes face-to-fact with would-be benefactor, Mr. Evan Fontaine, played by the always terrifying Demian Bichir. As Hemingway helplessly unleashes volleys of libelous offense, we see just how much of a big fish in a small pond he is. In everything, the Dom Hemingway model is outdated.

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All that transpires up to here makes for a riotous first half but there’s a notable turning point where penance starts to take hold and everything that makes Dom such an parasitically compelling character start to fade to lighter hues and knee-bending. Law never loses hold of his commanding presence but the script steers him in directions that we would have rather it forsaken. We’ve seen the man trying to win back his family back (even if their family doesn’t include a tragically-hip-haircut-sporting Emilia Clarke) and it fits the ravager Dom like a three-dollar suit.

Suffering from my ‘daughter hates me’ woes, Hemingway looks like a Cocker Spaniel with junk clogging its eyes. He’s a pitiable lunk whose legacy will measure up to his effusive tenure in prison and a propensity to crack out-of-date safes. In the age of electronic everything, even his specialization has outdated him.

As Shepard weaves the character of a bygone criminal braggart into a head-hanging old fool “alone and full of regret”, the bittersweet lark loses its bite. But I guess that’s the point. At some junction, we reassess life, and usually only in circumstances forced upon us. We can’t fight battles of the future with the weapons of the past. Regrettably, Dom Hemingway’s life reassessment feels a bit too much like a guy getting a vasectomy but at least it allowed Jude Law the most daffy, bombastic and peculiarly distinguished performance of his career. For a movie that starts about a guy spewing about the glory of his ding-dong, by the end, everyone’s got him by the balls.

B-

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SIFF 2014 Unveils African Pictures Lineup

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Chiwetel Ejiofor and Thandie Newton in Half of a Yellow Sun

The Seattle International Film Festival has released details on their first bout of films set to span the further reaches of cinema the world over. Putting the “international” in International Film Festival, SIFF takes a decided stance to represent more than a handful of foreign films amongst a smattering of domestic films. Just as many, if not more, films come from around the world and nothing is a better example of this than their African film series. Take a look through the list of eclectic African pictures including World and North American premieres. Full screening details to follow on May 1.

 

 

African Metropolis

d: Marie Ka, Philippe Lacote, Ahmed Ghoneimy, Vincent Moloi, Folsakin Iwajomo, Jim Chuchu, Kenya, Ivory Coast, Egypt, Senegal, Nigeria, South Africa 2013, 92 min

Filmmakers from across the African continent paint a vivid picture of a new, urbanized Africa through innovative short stories featuring six fast-growing major cities: Abidjan, Cairo, Dakar, Johannesburg, Lagos, and Nairobi.

 

B For Boy

d: Chika Anadu c: Uche Nwadili, Nonso Odogwu, Ngozi Amarikwa, Frances Okeke, Nigeria 2013, 118 min


In Chika Anadu’s award-winning debut film, Amaka, a 40-year-old Nigerian woman, is expected to produce a male heir. But when the baby dies in utero, she desperately searches for a solution that would keep her husband from taking a second wife.

 
Difret

d: Zeresenay Berhane Mehari c: Meron Getnet, Tizita Hagere, Ethiopia 2014, 99 min

After being beaten, assaulted, and kidnapped, 14-year-old Aberash shoots and kills her attacker in an act of self-defense, pitting herself and her tenacious lawyer against Ethiopia’s long-standing tradition of marriage by abduction. Based on an extraordinary true story.

 
Electro Chaabi

d: Hind Meddeb, Egypt/France 2013, 77 min

They started as performers in the poorest neighborhoods of Cairo; now they’re among Egypt’s fastest-rising stars. Unlikely musical celebrities, their electrifying version of Arab hip hop has flourished across social classes to become the inspiring soundtrack to a tumultuous time.

 
Finding Fela

d: Alex Gibney, USA 2014, 120 min

Afrobeat pioneer Fela Kuti’s magnetism reverberates through time. The social and political significance of his life’s work is considered through historic clips and scenes from the Broadway musical FELA!


Four Corners
NORTH AMERICAN PREMIERE

d: Ian Gabriel c: Brendon Daniels, Irshaad Ally, Jezriel Skei, Lindiwe Matshikiza, Abdurahman Adams, South Africa 2014, 114 min

13-year-old chess prodigy Ricardo gets caught between two long-warring gangs, the 26s and the 28s of the pitiless Cape Flats of South Africa, just as the father he’s never known is released from prison.

 

Half of a Yellow Sun

d: Biyi Bandele c: Thandie Newton, Chiwetel Ejiofor, John Boyega, Anika Noni Rose, Joseph Mawle, Nigeria/United Kingdom 2013, 106 min

Based on the eponymous novel by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Half of a Yellow Sun follows the lives of two Nigerian sisters in the 1960s who return home after receiving educations in England. The tumultuous Nigerian Civil War is the backdrop to this author-approved drama adaptation.

Leading Lady

 

d: Henk Pretorius c: Gil Bellows, Katie McGrath, Brumilda van Rensburg, Bok van Blerk, Eduan van Jaarsveldt, South Africa 2014, 96 min

From the director of Fanie Fourie’s Lobola, winner of the SIFF 2013 Golden Space Needle Award for Best Film, comes this uplifting tale of a teacher and struggling actress who enlist a South African sheep farmer in helping her prepare for a make-or-break film role. 

Rags and Tatters

d: Ahmad Abdalla c: Asser Yassin, Atef Yousef, Amr Abed, Yara Gubran, Mohamed Mamdouh, Egypt 2013, 87 min

A nameless fugitive fights his way through the chaos of revolutionary Cairo to deliver cell phone footage of police brutality from his dying friend to the outside world. Hailed as “a touchstone of post-revolutionary Egyptian cinema.” 

 

 

The Rooftops

d: Merzak Allouache c: Adila Bendimerad, Nassima Belmihoub, Ahcene Benzerari, Aïssa Chouat, Mourad Khen, Algeria/France 2013, 92 min

Algeria’s most beloved director weaves the story of five Algiers neighborhoods organized according to the five calls to prayer over the course of a single day.

 

 

Salvation Army

d: Abdellah Taïa c: Saïd Mrini, Karim Ait M’hand, Amine Ennaji, Malika El Hamaoui, Frederic Landenberg, Morocco/France 2013, 82 min

Inspired by the director’s own experiences, the film recounts the journey of a gay Moroccan teenager who uses his sexuality to advance his position in, and eventually escape, the society that shuns him. A brave, provocative film that tackles taboo issues to offer a new vision of the queer Arab experience.

 

 

Under the Starry Sky

d: Dyana Gaye c: Marème Demba Ly, Ralph Amoussou, Souleymane Seye N’Diaye, Maya Sansa, Babacar M’Baye Fall, France/Senegal 2013, 86 min

Through three emotionally charged story lines, taking viewers from Senegal to Italy to America and back again, the destinies of three far-flung sojourners connect in this transcontinental drama that’s a richly realized examination of the African diaspora and the often fractal nature of contemporary emigration.

 

White Shadow

WORLD PREMIERE

d: Noaz Deshe c: Hamisi Bazili, James Gayo, Glory Mbayuwayu, Salum Abdallah, Germany/Italy, Tanzania 2013, 115 min

In Tanzania, young albino Alias is on the run after witnessing his father’s murder. He finds city life as fraught with danger as the bush in this intense and stunning feature debut centering on crime perpetrated because of superstition.

 


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