Questionable Amounts of Flesh, Growing Older (Wiser?) and Hysteria

I've been asked by a few people to resume writing analysis of the particular films I've seen, so here's a few. Sorry if they weren't the ones you wanted to hear more of...

Too Much Flesh - dir. Pascal Arnold, Jean-Marc Barr - 2000 - France - N/A - Jean-Marc Barr, Élodie Bouchez, Rosanna Arquette, Ian Brennan, Ian Vogt

The fact that Pascal Arnold and Jean-Marc Barr's Too Much Flesh was released with said title, the temptation to discuss at length the film's fleshiness and sexual content is unavoidable, and perhaps the only thing worth spending time on in the first place. Conceived as the second part of a trilogy dealing with the heart, the body and the soul, Too Much Flesh deals with, yes, the carnal desires of man, specifically one named Lyle (Barr) who's still a virgin at 35. He seems to be driving his wife (Rosanna Arquette) mad with this, and things don't get any better when he decides to lose his V-card to another woman, played by Élodie Bouchez, who not only starred with Barr in J'aimerais pas crever un dimanche but is the only actor to be in all three of Arnold and Barr's trilogy (Lovers and Being Light are the other two). Once the deed is done, we're given a series of lusty, dreamy sexual encounters between the two, one even involving Bouchez wanting Barr to seduce a young farmboy. There's plenty of issue to be taken about the fact Too Much Flesh isn't half the film Dogville is (which Barr co-starred in), but the film's display of sexuality is considerably more provoking than its notion of small-town, small-minded America. For the abundance of flesh on display, it's hard not to notice the way in which the camera or the body is always cropped in order to avoid Barr's penis. There's a suggestion in the film that there might be something "wrong" with it, but when Bouchez's body, which is not given the same treatment, becomes the concealer of choice (placing her hands and legs, among other things, strategically in front of Barr's member), any attempts at a European elitism over prudish American views of sex become futile. Too Much Flesh begins to perpetrate taboos it so snobbishly opposes in regards to full-frontal male nudity (Bouchez's hand also hides the farmboy's dick), which I'm sure most people would attribute to American cinema. The sex itself, while certainly more erotic than most films about blossoming sexuality, also stops short of penetration, and I'm referring to the simulated act. Ultimately, Too Much Flesh seems satisfied with not-really-enough flesh and becomes about as prudish as it thinks us Americans are.

Party Girl - dir. Daisy von Scherler Mayer - 1995 - USA - First Look - with Parker Posey, Guillermo Díaz, Sasha von Scherler, Omar Townsend, Anthony DeSando, Donna Mitchell, Liev Schreiber

God, I'm getting old. More than ten years ago, Party Girl was one of my touchstones of hipness. Yeah, it probably always was a shitty movie, but what I'm realizing now is that, outside of the multi-character Gen-X films she co-starred in (Dazed and Confused, Kicking and Screaming, Sleep with Me), Parker Posey was probably the only actress who constantly rose above her shitty films. I rewatched The House of Yes a few weeks ago and could barely get through it. It's probably the greatest compliment one can give an actress to be so wonderful as to distract the viewer from recognizing the lousiness of the film at hand. While I'll always admire Mary's ice-cold hauteur (which was the exact phrase a critic used to describe her while condemning the film), I don't know that I'll be taking many more trips down memory lane with Party Girl. Talk to me when you get a last name, honey.

L'important c'est d'aimer [The Main Thing Is to Love] - dir. Andrzej Żuławski - 1975 - Mondo Vision - France/Italy/West Germany - with Romy Schneider, Fabio Testi, Jacques Dutronc, Claude Dauphin, Klaus Kinski, Roger Blin, Gabrielle Doulcet

It's rather fitting that I'm watching Andrzej Żuławski's films around the same time Jeremiah Kipp's been interviewing Daniel Bird about Central New Wave Cinema at The House Next Door. I should confess that although I included Żuławski's Possession in the revisited section of my 2009 Notebook, I'm not 100% certain that I saw the full film prior to this year, after renting a crappy VHS of it from an independent video store years ago which, more than likely, was the US edit. In the interview, Kipp states that "[Żuławski's highly emotional and aggressive films] are frequently criticized for their 'hysteria.'" These are similar criticisms that have been given to Ken Russell's films with "mania" as the substitute for "hysteria." However, in looking back at both directors' films, there's something terribly admirable about this "hysteria/mania." When you're hard-pressed to come up with a contemporary filmmaker to match either (Baz Luhrmann be damned!), there's a sad sense that perhaps such cinematic mannerisms have become relics. L'important c'est d'aimer (which is a difficult title to translate into English) was Żuławski's first big success, in France of course as it was his first to be made in the country and starred two cultural icons, Romy Schneider and Jacques Dutronc. Though it lacks the alarming-ness of his later Possession, L'important c'est d'aimer is wonderful still, particularly for Schneider, who considered this to be her best work and whose performance here was one of the dedications at the end of Almodóvar's Todo sobre mi madre. As Nadine Chevalier, an actress specializing in films de cul, Schneider devastates within her first moments onscreen, unable to find it within her to fuck the dying body of her onscreen lover. Żuławski has a flair with actors, eliciting the frightening best of out of both Schneider and Isabelle Adjani in Possession and wonderful turns from Dutronc and Klaus Kinski as well. Was I wrong in absolutely hating Mes nuits sont plus belles que vos jours, particularly Dutronc's performance? I'll have to give it another go. Best line in the film: when asked if he's crazy after planting a kiss on the film's dull protagonist Servais (Fabio Testi), Kinski responds, "no, just rich."

Tattoos of Ships, Tattoos of Tears

Alexandra [Aleksandra] – dir. Alexandr Sokurov – 2007 – Russia/France

Maybe I’ve watched too many films, but I often can get a whiff of what a director’s steppin’ in early into a film, which is why when a director deviates from these expectations, I overexcite myself. Unfortunately, Alexandra is rather easy to decipher. Throughout the film, I kept thinking, “this film would probably make a good music video for CocoRosie’s ‘Beautiful Boyz.’” Yeah, Alexandra has a paint-drying pace and most of its color is washed away, but there are some illuminating sequences, particularly when Sokurov cuts from grouchy Alexandra’s (Galina Vishnevskaya) wandering around the military base to the faces of the young Russian soldiers. When Alexandra sticks to being an enigmatic portrayal of war pawns, it’s a whole lot more fascinating than Alexandra’s pleases for her grandson to find a wife and leave the army. To many, Alexandra was all about its star, opera singer Vishnevskaya, but for me, her presence did little other than irritate, which maybe was the point. Maybe.

Delirious? You mean the one with John Candy?

Who Are You, Polly Maggoo? [Qui êtes-vous, Polly Maggoo?] – dir. William Klein – 1966 – France

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Mr. Freedom – dir. William Klein – 1969 – France

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The Model Couple [Le couple témoin] – dir. William Klein – 1977 – France/Switzerland

I ventured into the so-called delirious fictions of William Klein over a month ago and only when listening to Serge Gainsbourg this evening was I reminded of such. Touted as lost narrative classics of the ex-patriot photographer Klein, to say that they each left something to be desired wouldn’t be accurate. For, what’s most strange about these three films, particularly Mr. Freedom and The Model Couple, the two weaker of the three, is that everything is in place. Both Mr. Freedom and The Model Couple have their tables set for delicious satire, but maybe it’s their tidiness that makes them so forgettable. Or maybe that while Klein may have been thematically “ahead of his time,” his films just didn’t have much to say that couldn’t have been summed up in a sentence.

The delirium that The Criterion Collection speaks of can best be found in Who Are You, Polly Maggoo?, which is the only enjoyable one of the three. It’s amusing kitsch and a satire that sort of works overall, or at least in comparison. The other two, however, solely rely on pulpiness and their own proper table-settings which never equal anything substantial or even entertaining. Even with Mr. Freedom’s amusing cast of celebrities, which include Delphine Seyrig, Donald Pleasance as Dr. Freedom, Philippe Noiret, Serge Gainsbourg (with a horrible over-dubbing in English), and Yves Montand as Captain Formidable (in an uncredited cameo), the film hardly ranks high in its own novelty. I think I’ll just stick to my Serge Gainsbourg albums from now on, and I’ll probably soon forget the so-called delirium of a once-forgotten and should-be-forgotten-once-more artist.

Breakfast at Tiffany's Is Your Favorite Movie? Just Look at Me.

Love and Other Disasters - dir. Alek Keshishian - 2006 - UK/France

I hate finding myself in the cinema, especially when it's in the form of a seen-it-before romantic comedy like Love and Other Disasters. It's even worse when that character proves to be the most pathetic in its ensemble cast. Peter Simon (Matthew Rhys) is a film-obsessed journalist, who wears Echo & the Bunnymen T-shirts, with romantic woes of tragic proportions. "Films have ruined my love life," he says, as I sit back, groan, and realize, "fuck, I'm ruined." I tried to ignore this tragic projection in focusing on Brittany Murphy's indecipherable accent, but it just kept coming back. And, this isn't to mention that the characters exist in a reflexive London where its inhabitants try their best not to fall into cinematic clichés. I need to get a life.

Mine

Cindy, the Doll Is Mine - dir. Bertrand Bonello - 2005 - France

I suppose, with me, it was bound to happen. It was bound to happen that Asia Argento's power over me would become uncontrollable... and with Bertrand Bonello's short, Cindy: The Doll Is Mine, it's happened. Within the past two months, I've probably watched more of Ms. Argento's films than most have seen in their entire life, and while I have have gotten frustrated around the time I saw Tony Gatlif's Transylvania, it all changed with Olivier Assayas' Boarding Gate. A lot of people, myself included, may suggest that Ms. Argento isn't exactly the most capable of actresses, but in my book, that means nothing now. Any detractor of her "acting ability" obviously hasn't seen this, and even if you had, you don't understand the appeal. Argento is like Grace Jones to me: this utterly fascinating persona of media personality... one we've never seen in quite such a way before. Here, she plays both artist Cindy Sherman and model Cindy Sherman, to the most effective of extents, examining what, perhaps, it truly is to be artist and subject. Bonello (Tiresia) received support from Sherman herself, but is that so surprising? Is Cindy: The Doll Is Mine not just the perfect extension of Sherman's self portraiture? Does it not become even more fascinating seeing someone else interpret this...? (Much more so than Sherman's own directorial debut Office Killer) And is Argento not the perfectly molded subject to convey this? I officially have a woman of my dreams, and I just hope she stops acting in her father's films.

Mothers, Tears, Sex and Watermelons

Savage Grace – dir. Tom Kalin – 2007 – USA/Spain

God bless Julianne Moore were the first words that left my mouth after Savage Grace, Tom Kalin’s nearly fifteen-year follow up to Swoon. How many American actresses can hiss so wonderfully the line, “Yeah, that’s right, I called you a cunt,” as the lovely Ms. Moore can? In Savage Grace, Moore plays Barbara Baekeland, the victim in one of the most famous murder cases of the 1970s, at the hands of her young son Anthony (Eddie Redmayne). Based on the book by Natalie Robins, Savage Grace isn’t so much concerned with the violent act itself (it comes within the film’s final moments) as the course of events leading up to it. Baekeland quite famously married above her class to Brooks (Stephen Dillane) around the time of WWII only to become a socialite of questionable moral density. As Barbara, Moore plays the woman as if she were scripted for Isabelle Huppert and molded into Julianne Moore. It’s a fiery performance, one that will likely detract most American viewers. As a film though, Savage Grace isn’t nearly as satisfying as Moore herself. It’s exotic and full of debauchery (think an American Ma mère, only much better, and not directed by Christophe Honoré) as the mother’s curious relationship to her son (here, a bee-stung lipped homosexual) forever shapes his erratic, antisocial leanings. Rounding out the rest of the cast are Hugh Dancy as Barbara’s “walker,” Belén Rueda as her Spanish high-society acquaintance, Elena Anaya as Anthony’s “beard” and Unax Uglade as his hunky lover Black Jake. Kalin has certainly been missed after his New Queer Cinema staple Swoon, and while Savage Grace certainly mirrors that film’s taste for offbeat romance and violence, Savage Grace’s provocation is left somewhat unfelt.

Water Lilies [Naissance des pieuvres] – dir. Céline Sciamma – 2007 – France

It seemed fitting that the first film I ever saw that focused around synchronized swimming would come from France. Certainly, I could imagine Disney envisioning whoever their new Linsdsay Lohan is to embark on such a competition, however there’s something that’s too theatrical and aesthetic for a brainless competitive sports film. Thus, the world of synchronized swimming has come to life, beautifully, in the form of three young girls’ sexual awakening. Sciamma’s film debut is smart, if familiar, which does and does not go where you want it to. Water Lilies hits a point midway through, particularly at the point where your fears that you’ve seen it all before begin to surface, in which the film actually does defy those fears. Ultimately, it’s not enough, but the film still stings of the awkwardness of adolescent sexuality.

The Wayward Cloud – dir. Tsai Ming-liang – 2005 – Taiwan/France

There’s much to be said about the cinema of Taiwan’s Tsai Ming-liang. I’m pretty much convinced that I like his films even before I see them, as was certainly the case with The Wayward Cloud, his musical about a drought taking over Taipei and the wordless love affair between a bored woman (Chen Shiang-chyi) and a porno actor (Lee Kang-sheng). However, as has always been the case, I end up liking his films less once I actually see them. Maybe I should just keep my good faith toward the director and not see his films, because, more often than not, they lack something essential to my continued patience. His films are, quite frankly, slow as hell, which is never a problem for me, but the extraordinary distance he places himself from his audience feels more often like vacancy than it does poignancy. He’s a brilliant image maker, but that’s not the same thing as a filmmaker… and after seeing this and The River, the guy has gusto. I just wish I could feel something, instead of the limbo between something and nothing. The last shot of the film, however, is breathtaking.

Mother of Tears: The Third Mother [La terza madre] – dir. Dario Argento – 2007 – Italy/USA

Alert Mystery Science Theater 3000, Mother of Tears is on the way! Truly, I cannot think of a worse film directed by a once-revered filmmaker. Certainly Francis Ford Coppola’s Jack comes to mind, and I’ve heard wind that Terry Gilliam’s Tideland could qualify, but Dario Argento’s Mother of Tears is in a league-of-its-own awful. I think I’ve seen films released by Full Moon Pictures that have exuded more skill than this. For those interested, Mother of Tears is the long-overdue conclusion to Argento’s Three Mothers Trilogy, which begun with Suspiria, followed by Inferno. Here, the director enlists his too-game daughter, Asia, to play an art history student who may have unleashed the third mother from her grave, and, naturally, she’s the only one who can stop her. Ms. Argento has obviously grown out of her days with daddy, constantly associating herself with vital and challenging filmmakers, and it seems about time for her to opt out of acting in all her father’s films. You can almost read the embarrassment she’s feeling on her face while enduring Mother of Tears. Perhaps Argento was once a great innovator the genre of horror, but he’s taken such a step away from those days that you’d have never guessed Mother of Tears came from the same man who directed Opera or Suspiria. I can’t stress enough how putrid Mother of Tears is, but at the same time, I can’t deny that the film elicited some of the most rousing and unintentional howls from this reviewer. If I’m to say anything nice about this catastrophe, at least Argento isn’t afraid to kill children… violently.

Meat Is Murder

Shotgun Stories - dir. Jeff Nichols - 2007 - USA

Like a gothic Midwestern Greek tragedy, Shotgun Stories unflinchingly looks at the family rivalry between seven men of the same father, separated by their father's ignorance toward the eldest three, who are conveniently named Boy, Kid, and Son. Michael Shannon (Bug) is remarkably good as the eldest of the first three, and even if the film sometimes goes where you expect it to in terms of plot, it's still rather remarkable in tone. Co-produced by David Gordon Green.

Bungalow - dir. Ulrich Köhler - 2002 - Germany

The aimlessness of youth has always been a cinematic obsession of mine, and Bungalow, from first-time director Köhler, is a fine addition to said sub-genre. Paul (Lennie Burmeister) goes AWOL from the military (out of boredom, we're lead to believe), only to spend two mundane days avoiding the military police, fighting with his older brother (David Striestow) and sort-of girlfriend (Nicole Glaser), flirting with his brother's Danish girlfriend (Trine Dyrholm of The Celebration), and doing a lot of swimming. Bungalow is constantly unassuming and keeps Paul's ambition and desires at an enigmatic distance, making his every move that much more fascinating. Köhler directs Burmeister with minimal emotion all to the film's benefit.

Mad Cowgirl - dir. Gregory Hatanaka - 2006 - USA

Whew. There's a lot to say about Mad Cowgirl, a black comedy/satire/slasher/martial arts film about a woman (Sarah Lassez of Nowhere and The Blackout) who works as a meat inspector and develops a lethal brain tumor, which may or may not have been caused by her meat consumption. This tumor spirals her into obsession with a kung-fu actress, a seedy sexual affair with her brother (James Duval), tormenting her former lover, a priest (Walter Koening), and going on some sort of killing spree. I refer back to the kitchen sink reference, as Mad Cowgirl really has it all, and some of it's dull, some of it's not. I can't fault it's ambition, or Lassez's strange performance, nor can I scream its praises... however, I can't resist applauding it for, at least moderately, succeeding in all its excess and blasphemy. You might also note that Lassez and Duval are joined in the cast by Devon Odessa and Jaason Simmons, all four of which starred in Gregg Araki's Nowhere. Hmm. If you get inspired to see Hatanaka's other films afterward, I can safely tell you to avoid Until the Night, which stars fellow Nowhere alum Kathleen Robertson, as well as Sean Young and (gag) Norman Reedus.

Summer Palace - dir. Ye Lou - 2006 - China/France

Oh, the sexual awakening of college. Summer Palace follows Yu Hong (Lei Hao) as she enters university in Beijing, starts fucking around with boys, writes in her journal and witnesses the massacre of Tiananmen Square. Director Ye Lou (Purple Butterfly, Suzhou River) paints Summer Palace like a dream, swirling and drifting as youth, but when the film ends up continuing for another hour and a half, it perhaps looses some of its merit. Instead of focusing simply on a young girl's sexual and political awakening, Lou spreads the film over the course of her young adulthood as well. As for the sex, I never thought I'd say so, but the prevalence of so many couplings so many times actually begins to wear. It's not a film with something intellectual to say about sex as much as it is how sex shapes the people, so in seeing the act so frequently, we might be lead to believe that they only exist in the film for shock value (which caused the film to be banned in China).

Ruined

Bugcrush - dir. Carter Smith - 2006 - USA

In preparation for seeing The Ruins this weekend (better known as the only hope for a decent horror film this half of the year), I visited Carter Smith's short film, Bugcrush, available through Strand's Boys Life 6 collection... and, yes, my anticipation is now high. Running just over a half hour, Bugcrush is thrice as moody as any horror film I've seen in a while, focusing on the unlikely crush of a young high school boy (Josh Caras) on a likely heterosexual bad boy (Donald Cumming). Things don't really move as you would expect them to and Smith drapes Bugcrush with a palpable sense of danger. Ultimately, it doesn't make a lick of sense, but by that point, it doesn't matter. As you probably know, films that stray from any sense of reality or proper dissection after establishing itself fantastically suit my fancy. I just hope The Ruins can restore my faith in the American horror. Sorry Carter Smith for laying such an unrealistic task on your shoulders. Also, keep an eye out for Billy Price, the subject of the documentary Billy the Kid, as one of the bad boy's friends.

Quick Reference

Wristcutters: A Love Story - dir. Goran Dukic - 2007 - USA

Sure, it's an interesting premise, but does an interesting premise a good movie make? Of course not. I'm not going to stretch myself as far to call Wristcutters a bad film, as it's--at least--engaging throughout. In fact, now that I'm thinking clearly upon the film, there's not much more to do with it other than outright reject it or take its effective surrealism as something altogether shallow. In fact, Wristcutters is one of the few films you can adamantly hate or enthusiastically love, and I frankly wouldn't give two shits. It's not offensively "culty," despite an almost entire soundtrack from Tom Waits, and it's also not as arrogant as Donnie Darko to set off my offensives. It's fine, as much as I hate the idea of leaving that generic sentence to conclude this "synopsis."

Socket - dir. Sean Abley - 2007 - USA

Have fun, if you so desire, with Socket, a crude, superficial update of David Cronenberg's Videodrome. It's certainly unapologetically gay, casting the only "heterosexual" woman as a transgendered woman, but I hope you would know that shamelessly queer doesn't alone impress me. From the disc menu, I found reason to question the integrity of the film. Honestly, what purpose does a generic techno soundtrack serve a film, let alone a generic gay film? None, I would beg to say. Unfortunately, Socket plays with fascinating subjects, i.e. the paralyzing nothingness and heightened eroticism of a man recently struck by lightening. Unfortunately, the symbolism and metaphors are way, way too easy, crippling any legitimate comparison to Videodrome, as the lead character's (Derek Long) ultimate desire for power and, yes, electricity becomes all-too-apparent. Is it even worth someone's time for commending a shitty film for its ambitions when they ultimately lead to nothing worth speaking of? I'd like to say no, and thus, like to tell you to avoid Socket.

Short Cuts 22 March 2008

Here's an update of what I've been watching in the past few days.

The Witnesses [Les témoins] - dir. André Téchiné - 2007 - France

The Witnesses is uncharacteristically swiftly-paced for an André Téchiné film, particularly one that deals with what I'd like to call a love trapezoid during the course of an entire year in the early 80s. Like his previous Wild Reeds and Strayed, he treats The Witnesses like an epic war romance, crafting the AIDS crisis into une guerre, told from the point-of-view of an apathetic mother and wife (Emmanuelle Béart) whose husband (Sami Bouajila) is sleeping with a young boy (Johan Libéreau, of Cold Showers) who comes down with signs of what we now know as AIDS. Though successful in its own right, the film ultimately lacks the overall heartbreak of Wild Reeds and the simply stunning nature of Rendez-vous. Try not to pay attention to Béart's plastic surgery face and lips (or the fact that an American character who shows up near the end is clearly not from the United States).

Them [Ils] - dir. David Moreau, Xavier Palud - 2006 - France/Romania

Note to foreign directors who've made a successful horror film in their native country: don't come to America. Now, I'm not outright banning anyone from coming, but Hollywood has been recruiting foreign directors for their shitty remakes for the past few years (see The Hills Have Eyes, The Grudge 2, Hitman), and now we have the directors of Them to blame for The Eye. Them is actually pretty creepy (which is something I've heard The Eye certainly is not), but it feels more like a suspense demo reel than it does an actual film. It's tense and eerie, but empty and meaningless. Thankfully at seventy-seven minutes, it's hard not to at least applaud the directors for favoring old-fashioned terror over merciless gore.

It's My Party - dir. Randal Kleiser - 1996 - USA

It's been AIDS week at my house, first with The Witnesses and then It's My Party. It's My Party is pretty indisputably bad, but I can't bring myself to despise it. The film represents a specific era of time in which AIDS irrevocably changed the lives of everyone around it. In It's My Party, a brain tumor begins to eat away at Eric Roberts (whose casualness about dying gets grating after a while) after years of suffering from AIDS. Instead of dying in a hospital, he throws himself a "going-away" party with his close family and friends, including Lee Grant as his Greek mother, Marlee Matlin as his sister, Olivia Newton-John, Bronson Pinchot and Margaret Cho as his best friends, and George Seagal as his estranged father, among others. I can't really call It's My Party hokey because, in a way, it's authentic; its subject matter is too desperate to be easily dismissed even if it's constructed by lousy filmmaking. Just look at it as a brave aritfact.

Hannah Takes the Stairs - dir. Joe Swanberg - 2007 - USA

Grumblecore. Mumblecorpse. Those are two words that I couldn't resist using in reference to Joe Swanberg's Hannah Takes the Stairs, the ultimate test of my patience in a long time. In yet another depiction of post-college life, Swanberg introduces Hannah (Greta Gerwig), an emotionally confused serial dater who blows through the hearts and lives of three men (Mark Duplass of The Puffy Chair, Andrew Bujalski of Mutual Appreciation and Kent Osborne) throughout the course of the film. With Hannah Takes the Stairs, Swanberg best identifies the dead-end nature of the so-called mumblecore movement, crafting a film that's barely distinguishable in maturity or even in terms of plot devices from his previous Kissing on the Mouth and LOL. I could go on, but I'm remaining tight-lipped on this one.

Céline and Julie Go Boating [Céline et Julie vont en bateau] - dir. Jacques Rivette - 1974 - France

Oh, joy. Add these ladies to my list of all-time favorites. It's easy to see how David Lynch might have gotten inspiration for, well, just about all of his films from Céline and Julie, but seldom has surrealism seemed as playful and enchanting as it has here. I would suggest you go out of your way to find this film if you haven't already seen it, and thanks to both Eric and Ed for their incessant Jacques Rivette masturbation sessions or I might have missed out. A fucking incomparable masterpiece.

Cautionary Tales

Ex Drummer – dir. Koen Mortier – 2007 – Belgium

Depictions of despicable people are rarely as enjoyable or as funny as they are in Ex Drummer, a black-as-night comedy about a famous Flemish author (Dries Van Hegen) asked by a trio of handicapped men to join their rock band. In the film’s terms, “handicapped” more accurately refers to a manner to condescend its characters further. The lead singer has a dramatic speech impediment, the bassist is gay and can’t bend one of his arms and the guitarist is slightly deaf. Reluctantly, patronizingly, Dries joins the band even though he can’t play drums, if only to acquire material to write his next novel. Ex Drummer is rude, violent and cynical, in all the best possible ways. When Ex Drummer comes to its exhausting climax, the tone struts across the line of decency, taking its own unmatchable insolence to shocking lows. In many ways, the film then becomes the angry version of François Ozon’s Swimming Pool, albeit with less manipulation on the director’s part than his lead character. In fact, I think the “we’re watching his novel unfold” might be the only successful read of the film as Dries’ misogyny, homophobia, classism and overall misanthropy becomes fully realized in his own work. Though it’s easy to take issue with the possible cop out of such interpretation, Ex Drummer only suffers slightly from the notion. Otherwise, it’s daring, bold and painfully funny (actually probably the most hysterical film I’ve seen in a long while). Even if the ending doesn’t suit your fancy, it’s hard to fault the film for actually going there. And don’t tell me you didn’t wish more films climaxed in the exact same way (try The Opposite of Sex, Cloverfield or the series finale of Friends, and you’ll understand where I’m coming from).

Southland Tales – dir. Richard Kelly – 2006 – USA/Germany/France

Oh boy. In so many ways, there was a poetic justice in Southland Tales. Someone threw a wad of cash director Richard Kelly’s way to pretty much make whatever-the-fuck-he-wanted after his first film, Donnie Darko, reached an unbelievable cult status. Southland Tales, running 160 minutes and set in a dystopian America, made it into Cannes with all the hope in the world. Then everyone saw it, and it quickly became the worst reviewed film to play since The Brown Bunny two years prior. I can’t say I didn’t want Kelly to fail. Donnie Darko was ambitious enough, but I could smell the shit percolating underneath. Kelly seemed to me like a douche bag who’d seen Brazil too many times (which isn’t a fault on its own) who, by accident, struck a chord among the obnoxious youth of America. Plus, I hardly throw respect in the direction of someone who lists one of the Star Wars films as their personal favorite. Southland Tales is a wowing disaster, the sort of disaster that achieves a level of “badness” that I could easily see why some dolts would rush to call it a masterpiece (hell, I’ve defended Troll 2 on the same grounds, so I don’t have much room to talk). However, the specific dolts rushing to its side are probably the same idiots that discuss Donnie Darko “intellectually.” Southland Tales, God bless it, is such a balls-out debacle that I almost feel sorry for Kelly’s unborn children after the trumping said balls have, deservedly, taken. For its first hour-and-a-half (the post-Cannes cut runs 144 minutes, if you were wondering), the film is shockingly raw, a filthy mess of potty-mouthed dialogue and tedious exposition. Then, with about an hour left, the film turns into a completely different bad movie, sort of Donnie Darko without direction and a lid to place upon it. At least Southland Tales actually becomes remotely watchable at this point even if it’s just to see how far it will actually go. Kelly himself has stated that he doesn’t really know how to direct actors, which was painfully clear in Drew Barrymore’s embarrassing role in Darko. But, here, he uses a slew of “actors” whose collective talent probably doesn’t even match a tenth of Helen Mirren’s, allowing the likes of Sarah Michelle Gellar, Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, Justin Timberlake, Mandy Moore and Seann William Scott to walk through Southland Tales zombie-like. None of the above is particularly condemnable (other than Cheri Oteri), but God knows if they actually know what they were doing in the film. The only inspired moments of casting come from the family of nuclear scientists (at least I think that’s what they were), played ferociously by Wallace Shawn, Beth Grant, Bai Ling (yes), and (double yes) Zelda Rubinstein! In all seriousness, you should probably see Southland Tales. It should serve as a cautionary tale, like the film Overnight about the fucking asshole who directed the unbearably bad The Boondock Saints, as to what happens when a self-important Hollywood upstart “jumps the shark.”

Most High – dir. Marty Sader – 2004 – USA

“Drugs are bad, mmkay?” That line, perfectly delivered from South Park’s lovable guidance counselor, was the only thing that entered my mind watching Most High, both a cautionary tale of crystal meth and the overblown ego of a wannabe filmmaker. Julius (writer/director Sader) lives a modest, happy lifestyle before the world falls onto his shoulders after he loses his job (due to his boss being jealous of how too-fucking-good he is) and his surrogate father passes. Enter Erica (co-writer/producer Laura Keys), Julius’ surrogate father’s blood daughter who looks more like a parody of Lara Flynn Boyle’s Donna Hayward in the season 2 premiere of Twin Peaks. She introduces Julius to the harsh world of crystal meth, on which Julius gets to bang two hot babes at one time and lose fifty pounds, all while living off the residuals of a bar that was left to him. The time stamp of Most High is a bathroom scale, which divides the film into three acts and lets the audience know what a method actor Sader is. Robert fuckin’ De Niro, my ass. Most High suffers from the usual problems of drug movies, in that it thinks it’s about more than just addiction and somehow makes the act of taking drugs seem rather appealing. I thought the same thing when Jennifer Connelly was taking that double-edged dildo in front of the group of black men in Requiem for a Dream. If drug addiction is this fun, sign me up! Go back to university theatre, Sader. I think films like Most High and Requiem for a Dream do a better job of scaring people off drug movies instead of drugs themselves. Hey, I'm in the market for reasonably priced eight-balls; any leads? [Note: upon looking for an image for the film, I found out the film is "based on a true story." Ha! Even worse. Oh, yeah, and Sader doesn't look as much like Vincent Gallo in the film as he does in that photo.]

Where's Princess Coo-Coo When You Need Her?

Enchanted - dir. Kevin Lima - 2007 - USA

It seemed a bit too easy to give Disney accolades for having the ability to make fun of themselves with Enchanted. As we all know, outside of Pixar, Disney has been throwing its audience garbage for years, and it seemed about time for a little inspiration. With Enchanted, they presented us with something with a faint suggestion of idea: an animated fairy tale princess gets banished to "real life." However, as should have been expected, Enchanted is too proud of its own clever proposition to really work, outside of Amy Adams' inspired performance as Giselle, the hopeless romantic princess in search of her prince. The first issue that should be taken up with Enchanted is that it's too shallow to really work as a satire or even an advanced spoof. Giselle isn't so much another Disney princess as she is an emalgomation of princesses we've already met. She's Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella and a bunch of other bitches all in one, and if it weren't for Adams, she'd probably be tedious to watch. She's got an entourage of cute animals at her side, most notably a smart-ass chipmunk who follows the prince (James Marsden) into the real world to save her. Had Disney actually been sophisticated with the production, they would have made fun of their own cheap marketing in throwing in this inexcusably cutesy "animal friend," the Jar-Jar Binks, Elmo bullshit we all know too well. When all of Enchanted's shallow ambition wears off, you come to a horrible realization that there's about an hour left of the film, all of which surrounds Giselle's relationship with a "wooden" single dad (Patrick Dempsey, though they could have cast anyone). All this adds up to a big disappointment and I haven't even gotten to the horrendousness that is Susan Sarandon. We all enjoy a good "give your Oscar back, Cuba Gooding Jr." joke, but why not apply that to Ms. Sarandon, who's made a post-Oscar career out of playing useless mothers in lousy films (Mr. Woodcock and In the Valley of Elah were her most recent duds)? Susan, go polish the Oscar and bitch about George W. Bush with your husband so I don't have to see you any more. Just thank God for Amy Adams.

Plein de vide

Inside [À l’interieur] – dir. Alexandre Bustillo, Julien Maury – 2007 – France

I’ve certainly been wrong in my championing of certain horror films. By wrong of course, I mean “unpopular,” as I seemed considerably more enthusiastic about George Ratliff’s Joshua than just about everyone else. However, I like to think my passion for Inside will not be singular. Inside is, well, an absolutely uncompromising and jarring film; it’s a mood piece of violent proportions in which a pregnant young woman (Alysson Paradis, sister of Vanessa) becomes terrorized by a mysterious woman (Béatrice Dalle) in the night. The premise is simple, but I dare suggest that the execution is not. Inside is a mood piece under the guise of a horror film. Aided by Dalle’s horrifying performance, first-time directors Bustillo and Maury elevate Inside to something altogether stunning and bleak. Sure, it’s kind of a slasher film, and I don’t mean to suggest that there are underlying metaphors at work. It’s a reimagining of our understanding of terror under familiar pretenses. Whereas the greats of the genre tackled social consciousness, Inside represents a shift in the genre: unexplainable and unforgiving menace. While so many Hollywood horror films have emphasized the gloss and visual without substance, Inside mischievously penetrates these voids. In other words, the film addresses the expected, unintentional hollowness of the torture porn and inserts its own gaping crevasse of malice, meticulously-placed void that’s almost crippling. Watch at your own risk.

4 – dir. Ilya Khjanovsky – 2005 – Russia

The term “lost in translation” has always provided an easy understanding of the void I’ve felt between myself and the screen. I’ve used the term for Atonement, in which the film presented elements of written brilliance seemingly without heart. I’ve also used the term for My Blueberry Nights in which a quite literal language barrier between the director and his actors plague the overall work. With 4, there seems to be something less tangible lost in translation. I’ve often felt this from films of the east, cultures where customs and beliefs beyond my perception and attainable knowledge prevail. There was something missing in the interaction with 4, a piece of wisdom unshared by both parties. Narratively speaking, 4 follows three (yes, three) individuals—a prostitute, a piano tuner and a man working in the meat industry—during and after their chance meeting at a bar in the middle of the night. None of the three reveal literal truth in anything they share or say to each other, each making up extravagantly mundane alter egos for themselves only to have those personas shattered as they return to their personal lives. Much of the second half of the film is focused upon Marina (Marina Vovchenko) as she returns to a tiny village for a funeral. Once the three characters separate, 4 distances itself from easy interpretation, something I would normally drool over. However, as I said earlier, there’s something missing. Director Khjanovsky crafts some memorable, fucked-up scenes in the film, but still, I had no semblance of understanding as to where the film is going or why. Blame it on my occidental ignorance.

Funny/Sad

Strange that the first thing I could think to write about would be the curiously compelling "failures" of a number of films I've viewed in the past week over the "yeah, yeah, it's good" crossing of Casablanca off my "why the fuck haven't I seen this?" list. Really, what is there to say about Casablanca anyway? It's superior on nearly every level, and yet the focus of this entry is on the (perhaps more interesting) oddities I found myself viewing.

El misterio de los almendros [The Mystery of the Almond Trees] - dir. Jaime Humberto Hermosillo - 2004 - Mexico

Here's a premise to befuddle even the most un-beffuddle-able: two rookie detectives (Alejandro Tommasi, José Juan Meraz) are assigned to a case of a missing painting, belonging to a wealthy family whose daughter had gone missing. The rookies pose as homosexual lovers to get a special invite from a widow (María Rojo), known for hosting weekend posh parties for societal outcasts, whose daughter may have been the lover of the missing girl. There's also a string of murders that happen to surround the whole affair. Where is this going, you might think. Strangely, it happens to be going in directions I'm not sure the director (famous for Doña Herlinda and Her Son and Esmeralda Comes by Night) was even aware of. At some point in the film, the whole premise goes up in smoke, and the director doesn't even seem to care! What's also notable about the film (aside from the fact that I don't remember there being trees or almonds anywhere onscreen) is that the film isn't lead astray by the director's alterier motives, but merely for the sake of just going where it wants. It's like an untamed animal, all coiffed up before destroying the dinner party. And yet, it's so compelling in its confusion that you, too, forget why the detectives are even at this woman's house, let alone posing as lovers, let alone engaging in the sort of devious activity they fall into. I'd probably deserve a prize if I could explain what actually went on during the film, but I'm just satisfied with the ability to still shake my head at a film which I can't resist being coaxed into.

The Life [Yo puta] - dir. Luna - 2004 - Spain

Oh, what to do with The Life? I have no knowledge of the production itself, so all I can do is merely speculate. On one level, the film is about a young anthropology student (Denise Richards... yeah, I know) having trouble paying her bills as her grant runs out. Her neighbor (Daryl Hannah) has a solution: become a whore like her! You see, Ms. Richards has never had a boyfriend, and she's a virgin (right, I know), so this could pose a problem. It apparently posed a problem for the film itself, as I think the two actresses clock in about 15% of the film's actual screen time. Intercut, you'll find weird testimonials from actual prostitutes about "the business," love and sex, and their first time, seemingly having little to do with Denise's unfortunate situation. The talking-heads aren't particularly enlightening (you can find about 1000 documentaries on sex workers out there), but I'll say: it's never boring. Not being boring is a lot more to ask than you can imagine for me lately, so kudos to director Luna (not J.J. Bigas Luna as Netflix has labeled the film). Watching The Life is like watching someone salvaging a film they tried to make and realized half-way through was utter crap. I wouldn't encourage every director out there to piece together their rotten, unused footage and throw it together in some tiresome essay film, but at least The Life can show you that sometimes you can find lovely things buried in your trash can (if that's indeed what happened).

Innocents [Dark Summer] - dir. Gregory Marquette - 2000 - Canada/USA/Germany

This film, with its wonderful cast and awful Photoshopped-boxart, had always taunted me at the video store. What was Connie Nielsen and Jean-Hughes Anglade doing in this film? (The answer was a bit more simply answered when it came to Mia Kirshner) Well, eventually, I had to find out... and I'm still not very sure, but in ways more surprising than if the film was just direct-to-video shit. It's certainly not that, but what it is, I'm also unsure. In some ways it's a gothic tale of Americana (filmed in Canada, of course) in which a cellist (Anglade) takes two sisters he barely knows (Nielsen, Kirshner) on a cross country road trip. But, oh shit, there's a murderer lurking on the freeway. Or are the sisters a part of these murders? The answer, thankfully, is that they aren't, and about midway through the tension, the director gives up on it realizing there would be no possible way for the cards to fall in such a way. Innocents (or Dark Summer as it was originally titled) is amusing unflinching in its cold (but somehow pulpy) violence and trickery. Its trickery, thankfully, is all on Anglade's head, not the audience's. The film exists solely to display conflict, both imaginary and played out, in a perversely sexual manner. I don't know if I'm happy with where the director went with it, but, like I said for the two previous films, I was never bored. At one point in the film, Anglade asks the real question that's boiling beneath the surface: why the hell is Mia Kirshner wearing an awful wig? I'm always for a movie where a line of dialogue reminds you that the filmmakers aren't nearly as clueless as you might think they are, especially when I was afraid the wig was just a cheap way to convince the audience that the strikingly different actresses could be sisters.

Agnes and His Brothers [Agnes und seine Brüder] - dir. Oskar Roehler - 2004 - Germany

For someone with very little interest in American Beauty, I was surprised to find how much I liked a film that could owe so much to that film (even five years too late). Not to give anything away for those concerned with spoilers, but Agnes and His Brothers lifts at least two notable scenes from its American predecessor... and I didn't even mind! I'm not really sure where my film taste is going right now, but I'm happy enough to just let it find its way. The film concerns itself with three brothers: Werner (Herbert Knaup), a politician of sorts who relates to his dog more than his family; Hans-Jörg (Mortiz Bleibtreu), the lonely middle brother who happens to work at the only library in the entire world where the only inhabitants are hot women (thus feeding his sexual addiction); and, of course, Agnes (Martin Weiß), a transsexual go-go dancer. It's rather typically funny/sad, but it amplifies both sides so well to points frequently hilarious/devastating. Though the film's aim is in a different direction, I can't help but wish something like Margot at the Wedding had a bit more Agnes in her.

Sugar - dir. John Palmer - 2004 - Canada

The business of adapting Bruce LaBruce would seem a difficult endeavor as director Palmer did with LaBruce's short stories in Sugar. It probably made it a lot easier considering that the stories in which the film was based have little in common with LaBruce's cinematic work (of which I'm a raging fan, as you should know). I don't have a lot to say about Sugar here as it's working beautifully into a longer piece I'm planning based on my New Queer Cinema blog from a few months back. In many ways though, Sugar works as a meta piece of the youngster growing up with the films of LaBruce and Gregg Araki, depicting a teenage boy's (Andre Noble) fascination and subsequent disgust with the darker side of first love in a rent boy named Butch (Brendan Fehr). Also look for (now Oscar-nominated!) Sarah Polley as a pregnant crack dealer.

Good Boys [Yeladim Tovim] - dir. Yair Hochner - 2005 - Israel

Like Sugar, I won't say as much as I'd like to about Good Boys, as it, too, will be worked into the New Queer Cinema piece. It's actually quite fascinating how Good Boys works opposite everything about contemporary "gay" cinema in its promise of nastiness and heart and the way it gives it to the audience. It's nasty, alright, but not in redeeming ways. In fact, it uses nudity in a most clever manner, de-sexualizing it to the point of digust and, thus, straying from the more beautiful forms of sexuality. It certainly works as a great counter-point to the post-NQC garbage of American cinema.

Dare-aoke #2

Tekkonkinkreet - dir. Michael Arias - 2006 - Japan

Yuck. Where to begin? I neglected to mention in my first post that there are other individuals who aren't Mike involved in this project. The notion of watching shitty movies is addictive, what can I say? Before even receiving my second film, I issued a blanket rule for my viewing, one which unfortunately did not apply to this week. I said, "absolutely no fucking animation. No anime, no Disney, no fucking Garfield." I had suspected that the person choosing for me this week was going to give me the ol' knee-in-the-crotch, and boy was I right. Tekkonkinkreet? What the fuck? I don't even know how to pronounce that, nor do I even know what to say about it. Though I gave Mike a real doozy of awfulness (Prey for Rock and Roll with Gina Gershon, Drea de Matteo and Lori Petty!), I'd imagine that his viewing probably went down easier than mine. I can't tell you a single thing about Tekkonkinkreet except that I hated it. Actually, I just hate anime, and there isn't anyone or any film that's going to change that in my mind. I hate children and I hate the way the Japanese think children talk. I hate the way the Japanese animate, and above all, I'm not a fucking wiener with a pot belly and back hair that would be the normal audience for such a film. I know I'm being closed-minded, but anime to me is the sort of thing I don't even dignify with a justification of my hatred, as controversial as that seems. Perhaps I don't even know why I hate it, but let's just say the gods were not looking in my favor when I got my second entry of dare-aoke.

Dare-aoke: Part 1

Good Luck Chuck - dir. Mark Helfrich - 2007 - USA

Good Luck Chuck is the first in a series of blog posts that I will be making throughout the year, in which I'm dared to watch something that I would never choose to watch on my own. My homegirl Mike over at Hetero-erotica was the man responsible for this horrendous viewing party, where I, at least, got my basement cleaned while enduring Dane Cook's feeble attempt at deriving laughs from stupid viewers. I'm looking at its IMDb page right now and if you want an example of how good Good Luck Chuck is, the first two plot keywords listed are "hit in groin" and "non-statutory female-on-male rape." Ya dig? You probably won't here. The laugh-count hit a whopping zero, and when you multiply that by the numbers of breasts seen in the film.... you still get zero. I wish I had more to say here other than, "surprise! this blows!" but if you've ever seen Dane Cook or Jessica Alba before, you'd spot the redundancy in that statement a mile away. I think what astounds me most is how I can't even picture anyone deriving the least bit of enjoyment out of this, but - really - don't help me out with that. Up next week: Boondock Saints (yeah, yuck).

An amnesiac, a hot stalker girl, and an angsty Taiwanese homo walk into a bar... or, A Wasted Day of Film

Amnesia: The James Brighton Enigma [Amnésie - L’énigme James Brighton] - dir. Denis Langlois - 2005 - Canada

You probably already know that the words “based on a true story” are like nails on a chalkboard for me. It’s sort of a taste aversion, like how I can’t drink root beer because I barfed after having it when I was a kid. In Amnesia, director Langlois attempts to dispel such negative notions of the “docudrama,” by using the true story of an American man who woke up naked in Montréal with no memory of his identity as a means to explore ideas of “nature vs. nurture.” All the man remembers is his name, James Brighton (which ends up not really being his name), and that he’s gay. Langlois focuses on the gay thing by with little success. He sets up the possibility of intrigue and seems satisfied with just simply asking the question. In fact, he doesn’t really “ask” anything as much as he just implies that there’s an underlying question lurking around. When the possibility that James (Dusan Dukic), whose real name is Matthew Honeycutt, is faking his amnesia for attention, the question becomes a further distraction as Langlois never believes this theory. Instead, he offers the audience typically distorted flashbacks of James/Matthew being harassed and beaten up by a group of “straight guy” clichés. Amnesia ends up being an idea film with nothing to say and Langlois a lousy psychological researcher who’s happy enough to just to ask the questions instead of looking for the answers.

The Spectator [La spettatrice] - dir. Paolo Franchi - 2004 - Italy

She’s pretty, she’s shy, and she stalks you because she loves you. Maudlin Valeria (Barbora Bobulova) is translator by day, window stalker by night. When Valeria finds that the subject of her voyeurism enters her day world, all becomes disrupted… blandly. The Spectator purposefully calls to mind Hitchcock’s Rear Window in the lousiest respect. It’s a suspense-free “thriller,” reminiscent more of this year’s wretched The Page Turner than the worst thing Hitchcock’s ever made. There’s even a dead dog! Director Franchi fills The Spectator with empty provocations and Valeria with shallow motives. Our confusion about why a girl like Valeria would ever do what she does never feels like decisive fascination on the director’s part as it does the work of a clueless screenwriter. Franchi made his follow-up this year at Venice with the sexually-explicit Fallen Heroes, which will hopefully show an improvement if it ever gets released stateside. Oh, and thanks Facets for a DVD that makes a 2004 film look as washed-out as one from the 60s with no restoration.

Eternal Summer - dir. Leste Chan - 2006 - Taiwan

Taiwanese queer cinema loses some of the magic that Tsai Ming-liang invoked in my mind with Eternal Summer. Why are films about repressed gay teenagers in love with their better-looking straight best friend still made? Eternal Summer offers no reason for existing, other than having a cute lead actress (Kate Yeung) and passable cinematography. Let’s try to keep this plot line for talentless film students who’ll never get funding for their feature-film screenplay. Carrie (Yuen) falls for shy Jonathan (Bryant Chang), realizes he’s a poof and goes for his best friend Shane (Jonathan Chang), a ne’er-do-well basketball star. Blah blah blah, you know the rest; I just wish the director had realized this before making this compost pile of a film.

France et la mort

Private Property (Nue propriété) - dir. Joachim Lafosse - 2006 - France/Belgium

A friend of mine and I have a little ongoing gag that we use to sound more clever than saying “well, that’s obvious.” Our go-to is usually, “that’s like saying Isabelle Huppert is playing frigid!” Other staples include “Louis Garrel shows his cock in that film?” or, the less clever of the bunch, “Tilda Swinton is amazing in that film?” Well, Madame Huppert has decided not to throw us a bone with Private Property, a ravishing Franco-Belge production of a warring family and their house. Huppert plays the mother of adult twins, François (Yannick Renier) and Thierry (Jérémie Renier, real life brothers, though not twins). The three live in the house together, which Huppert’s ex-husband (Patrick Descamps) has left to his sons. Huppert wants to sell to open a bed and breakfast with her Flemish boyfriend (Kris Cuppens), but it appears to only be over stubborn Thierry’s dead body. The family clashes, naturally, as the close-to-the-point-of-homoeroticism twins differ in their parental relations. Private Property runs nearly ninety-five minutes, and for a film to please for nearly ninety-three of them, it’s no small feat. It’s especially French, but hardly maudlin. In fact, Huppert makes her Pascale rather endearing. How many films can you mention where you see Huppert ironing clothes?? Or getting fucked in the back of a jeep? Or yelling at her ex-husband? It would seem that she would do the latter quite often, but as I said before, her usual frigidity makes her more of an interior actress than her volatile roles might suggest. The ending of the film is questionable as it relates to the rest of the wonderful film, as it somewhat succumbs to the notion that French films must end in some sort of ambiguous tragedy. Instead of any of the characters paying for the sins of the rest of the family, Private Property concludes with mistaken agony. For a film to not beg me to fast-forward through it, I’m more than pleased (especially lately).

A Few Days in September (Queleques jours en septembre) - dir. Santiago Amigorena - 2006 - France/Italy/Portugal

I don’t know if I’m in a cinematic rut or if watching so many tepid films has turned me sour, but sitting down a watching an entire film without pause has really not thrilled me lately. As stated above, Private Property had me in rapture for its running length; A Few Days in September kept me in my seat as well, albeit for different reasons. I read a stimulating interview with Juliette Binoche, the famed French actress and Oscar winner for The English Patient, in which she discussed the choice of roles in her rather luxurious career. As a forty something and with the respect she commands, she pretty much has the pick of the lot; she’s fluent in many languages, perhaps more beautiful now than she was at twenty, and literally has directors banging at her door. She said in the interview that she chose A Few Days in September because, for once, she was offered a role in a pseudo-action film where the woman held the gun (a damsel in distress, she certainly is not). One could see also the appeal of A Few Days in September as it considers itself filled with historical importance. The film takes place in France and Italy several days before the attacks of 9/11, depicting a newly-unified Europe in the dawn of Al-Quida terrorism. Binoche escorts two youths (Sara Forestier and Tom Riley) around the streets of Paris and Venice in a search for her former business partner (a surprising Nick Nolte), and father and step-father, respectively, of the two, all while being tailed by a neurotic hitman (a French-speaking John Turturro). A Few Days in September is a bizarre failure that somehow manages to captivate while puzzling. With the exception of the attractive Forestier (Perfume: The Story of a Murderer), the acting is particularly bad. Binoche has become an actress of extreme confidence, and it’s strangely admirable that she’s so self-assure when she seems so misplaced here. Turturro’s performance is weirdly uncomfortable, a hitman who phones his analyst at all hours of the day to discuss his interior confusion. And Riley, a Brit, delivers a shaky American accent (one that rivals the horrible casting of Brits Juliet Stevenson and Kevin Bishop as dorky Americans in Ventura Pons’ Food of Love), though he does have wonderful chemistry with Forestier. It came as no surprise to me, when researching the film, that the director, an Argentine working in France, made his directorial debut with this film (he’d previously co-wrote screenplays for Post-coïtum animal triste, Peut-être, and Ni pour, ni contre (bien au contraire)). He has no idea what to do with his actors, gifted as they may be, nor does he exude an subtleties in dealing with any of his characters and their bonds with one another. Ultimately, A Few Days in September feels more self-important than it does actually important, but I’ve got to hand it to Amigorena for making this mess curiously alluring.

You Kill Me - dir. John Dahl - 2007 - USA

Call me crazy, but when Téa Leoni is the strongest facet of your film, I get a little scared. Coming from John Dahl, the underrated director of The Last Seduction and Joy Ride, I expected more. You Kill Me is the sort of film that you “get” without actually seeing it. The film follows Frank (Ben Kingsley), a Polish-heritage hitman working in the family business in Buffalo who happens to have a drinking problem. His uncle (Philip Baker Hall, who looks more like Kingsley’s brother than uncle) spots the problem and sends him to San Francisco to clean up. Frank doesn’t want to stop drinking, but he understands that if he’s not part of the business, he’ll get axed, literally. So, off to San Francisco he goes, working in a funeral home while half-assed attending AA meetings with his sponsor (Luke Wilson). At the funeral home, he meets brutally honest Leoni, whom he falls for. Dahl’s handling of Frank’s alcoholism is lousy; during the credit sequence, we figure out he has a drinking problem by tossing a bottle of vodka ahead of him as he shovels snow, making a swig from the bottle his prize for getting to the sidewalk. In fact, I’m not sure whether it’s the obvious humor or the timing of it that makes You Kill Me fall flat. In an unfunny bit, Wilson says that AA is a great place to pick up men, which causes Kingsley to respond, “Oh, I’m not gay.” “I’m sure I’ll get over it,” is the response, and maybe the line might have worked if Wilson wasn’t on his typical autopilot. I suppose we’re supposed to be amused when Frank finally gets in front of the AA group and admits that he’s a contract killer. I suppose we’re supposed to be amused by all of this, but instead, You Kill Me is sour and silly, which is never a good combination.