THEATER - "The Field"

John B. Keane wrote The Field forty years ago: all that means is that the adjective “timeless” fits now, right beside “brilliant.” Most positive phrases fit this colorful drama, and Ciaran O’Reilly’s direction overruns the few flaws in the script, like the two-and-a-half-hour length or the second act’s repetitious proselytizing. Under O’Reilly, the length is justified as an opportunity to remain in the company of such fine, engaging actors, and at least the overbearing exposition is boisterous.

The Field is simple dialogue wrapped around a simple plot—a plot of land, in fact, that a gentle widow has hired honest, hardworking Mick Flanagan, barkeep cum auctioneer, to publicly sell. Problem is, local bully ‘The Bull,’ feels entitled to the land since he’s leased it for the past five years. Keane’s characters are more human than most, which is to say that they’re flawed: Mick is pressured into cheating the woman, and when an outsider shows up to buy the land, it’s more surprising that The Bull weeps over killing the man than the actual murder itself.

The second act grows rather preachy and contrived, as the sergeant and priest attempt to break the lie of silence that surrounds Carriagthomond. They moralize and condemn the fearful villagers who won’t finger the killer, but at the same time, Keane makes it clear that he’s on the villagers’ side. He even uses the questioning as an opportunity to further develop character: Flanagan’s wife, Maimie, has a meltdown after discovering she’s pregnant with a tenth child, and Flanagan’s son grows disgusted by his father’s cowardice. Of course, it’s ultimately the actors who have to show those nuances onstage, and not a single one falls short: Orlagh Cassidy, Marty Maguire, and Ken Jennings (to name a few) go so far as to make Broadway look flimsy.

The Field is a struggle between old values—The Bull wants to farm the land—and new ones—Dee wants to pave the property. Modern theater often does the same: new works pave over the rich life of the land. The Field doesn’t cut those corners: it lives and revels in them.

[published 6-6-06 in Show Business Weekly]

THEATER - "cloud:burst"

cloud:burst begins not with a bang, but with a whimper: appropriate for a show whose title refers to the death of the dreams clouds carry. It makes sense that Dominic spends this one-man show imprisoned in the crepuscular glow of a cross—his mistake led to his daughter’s murder. Little wonder he sputters in half-broken fragments and phrases: he can’t admit the guilt he feels. “When Natalie went out to play, on the day, I only had to . . . Words, Helen, I only had to say . . .”

For eight weeks, Dominic has at least had the cold comfort of the ever-listening media to balance his wife’s accusatory silence at home. However, the play picks up with those vans pulling away, ditching the passé story, though of course Dominic’s life—his story—continues. Haunted by vivid memories of his ten-year-old daughter, he tries harassing a reporter into writing more: he needs there to be more, so that this is not the end. This leads to a physical confrontation with his wife—tricky to stage, since Dominic is playing both parts. For all Graeme Hawley’s good work in this role, cloud:burst falters a bit in those moments of back-and-forth dialogue. Hawley doesn’t alter his voice, which keeps the perspective properly trained on Dominic, but it makes the heated scenes hard to follow.

Chris O’Connell’s work is generally clear, though it operates in subtleties. As a writer, he keeps the memories jagged, and as a director, he keeps all motion to a minimum, hounding his actor from all sides with a prison of lighting and a cacophony of sound. Unfortunately, his work is so reductive that it’s barely forty minutes. That’s good for the show, but to balance the evening (and the ticket price), the Brits Off Broadway program needs another one-act.

At least cloud:burst ends on a somewhat happy note. The cross seems more like the shadow of a tombstone by the play’s end, but Dominic has finally managed to step out of that ensnaring light, to make one final, hopeful statement: “Cloud. Life, burst. Begins.” He is neither forgiven nor guilty, but he is, at least. He is.

[published 6-6-06 in Show Business Weekly]

BOOK - William T. Vollman's "Uncentering the Earth: Copernicus and The Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres"

"Who said simplicity was simple?" Nobody, I guess. But that's not even a question in William T. Vollman's contribution to the Great Discoveries series, Uncentering the Earth. No, we never get to simplicity: all we prove is that difficulty is difficult. Vollman tries, with occasional bursts of humor (often at the expense of those silly, misguided scholars who believed the Earth went around the Sun), but he gets bogged down trying to describe a science that really is "slightly beyond [his] intellectual competence." Vollman is a genius, by the way; what turns out to be slightly beyond him is greatly beyond us, even more so considering that his presentation that of a muddled middleman:

"In this sad little tract of mine--incomplete crib of an unreadable, error-ridden soliloquy addressed to a future which is author might have fled--I cannot hope to do justice to many of Copernicus's mathematical narratives; nor do I want to."

Normally, I'd agree, but the emphasis of this series has been on communicating these big ideas--even those that are flawed versions that Newton and Kepler have changed. Furthermore, Vollman continues to insist that foraging through these texts, accurate or not, is important because of how they have shaped the world, paved the road, &c. It follows that while he is unable to do Copernicus justice, the historical coverage springs to life (or at least a semblance of lucidness). For all these disclaimers (and they are plentiful), for all this playful self-deprecation, Vollman's essay on astrology turns into Revolutions itself: "in thought-explorations which resemble the squat walls and heavy windings of Cracow's streets--and in prose of incomparable dreariness."

He's right to say that "this essay of mine cannot do much better": he is bogged down by trying to give a layperson-like description of how the universe itself works. His all too brief commentaries on the difficult circumnavigating of religious concerns also seems a bit trite considering that, in the end, Copernicus cheats prosecution by dying shortly after publication. Points are made, and then remade, and then made again, because Vollman understands the philosophical and contextual ramifications, not the astrology. And we are constantly reminded, for lack of mathematical explanations, that Copernicus "[o]ften, without sufficient data, or even for utterly wrong reasons . . . turns out to be completely right."

There are some good sections where Vollman strays from Copernican history, runs from Aristotle and Ptolemy, and hides from solar mathematics: these interludes are edifying breathers that cover physics and scripture instead. They're also--like David Foster Wallace's previous book in this pop-science series, Everything and More: A Compact History of Infinity--understandable. But these are just breaks, explanations of the tangentials that allow us to delve back into the density of terms like "precession" and "parallax." Granted, this is not my school of study, but I feel exhausted from all the re-reading I've done, and in need of some great Rosetta stone, the likes of which can only be found in a talented professor's gentle rephrasing.

Still, when Vollman manages to stand back and draw philosophical conclusions, we see the glimmer of hope in this tortured volume: "The more we peer into the pre-Copernican universe, the more harmonies we find. It is both our gain and our loss that those now seem ludicrous." Those card tricks that used to dazzle us as children: the question is not how did we ever fall for them, but why can't we still be amazed? This sums up to another sad truth: "Observation slowly overcomes intuition." For all the work of our gut, it turns out to be wrong quite a bit. That, unfortunately, is true for this book as well. My gut wanted Vollman to make a miracle out of a muddle, but observation has proved that there are some topics--astrology among them--that are better left to the stars.

THEATER - "The History Boys"

As a comedy, The History Boys is simply brill. It’s an ace work that demonstrates the profound ridiculousness of high school, especially the extra preparatory classes for college. Although it’s a British import, things are pretty much the same there as here, save for a few lexical issues, and it’s good that they’ve implanted the whole cast, since they’re bazzin’. The problem is, The History Boys is not presented as a comedy—at least, not entirely. There’s a niggling undertone of dramatics, involving a beloved but eccentric teacher, who has the slight habit of molesting his children, often while riding them home on his motorcycle.

[Read on] at New Theater Corps

FILM - "X-Men: The Last Stand"

In a more perfect world, I could just say that this film is bad and you'd believe it, and I wouldn't have to relive the trauma of watching it in order to paint you a more descriptive picture. In a better world, I wouldn't have to use words at all, I could just use action sequences so hideously poor that you wouldn't even be able to read the review, let alone watch the film, without flinching. In a decent world, there'd be a quick cure, like in X-Men: The Last Stand (a.k.a. X3), for mutant growth, and we could use it on the director, Brett Ratner, and be rid of him and his unnatural ego (he's correct in calling this "A Brett Ratner film," but that's not something to be proud of). Even in an awful world, we could at least slit our wrists with the ten dollar bill and choke ourselves with the three quarters and die a horribly slow and agonizing death before willingly handing our money to the perfunctory ticket-sellers.

That just goes to show you what a downright despicable world we live in, where a film like X3 goes unpunished. I didn't like X2 much, but compared to this, it's a masterpiece. Now we've got even more Oscar-winning Halle Berry inaction (See Storm! See Storm fly! See Storm rage! Rage Storm, rage!), and it's rubbed off on Hugh Jackman, too, who now grunts more than he speaks, which is okay, since, as Wolverine, he mostly speaks with his fists. Gone is the brilliant Alan Cummings (Nightcrawler) -- replaced with an enjoyable Beast (surprisingly, Kelsey Grammer). And once again, Rogue, Iceman, Kitty Pryde and Colossus sit around with nothing much to do. At least Jean Grey (Famke Janssen) kills Cyclops before he grows too irritating, and then joins up with Magneto (Ian McKellen, who's just old and predictable by now), where we don't have to pay much attention to her. In fact, most of the recurring characters are quickly killed or cured, eliminating both their whining and special-effect costs. The franchise peters out here because both the script and the director are working with recycled material, and they make the social relevance of the film's discriminated-against mutants a laughing matter, or simply fodder for the choppy plot.

Yes, the plot is more choppy than a random stuntman after fighting Wolverine. Random moments are strung together, half-assed sub-plots involving mutant romance are desperately thrown out to sea (and left there), and the action scenes -- few and far between -- are brief and, if anything, jaw-raising. They're poor excuses to show off the CG department's ability to make things levitate, or to light things on fire, neither of which are very impressive. By emphasizing the "Phoenix" subplot (now just a handy split personality for Jean Gray, rather than a possessive alien entity), the film focuses on mental feats over the physical, though it's a proven fact that the fans really just want to see Wolverine punching something, hard.

Then again, Brett Ratner does as Brett Ratner does. That's his mutant power. Deal with it.

THEATER - "Dark Yellow"

Julia Jordan’s Dark Yellow is a natural, fluid drama sandwiched between the elements of something noir and something sinister. Thankfully, the two ends are thin-crust, and the middle is stuffed full of extra meat, so the play balances itself out like a hearty double-decker, and winds up being a savory morsel of theater. The opening is so crisp that it dilutes some of the surprise flavor for the bulk of the show, and the ending is too ambiguous to be satisfying, but that center . . . oh, that center!

[Read on] at New Theater Corps

THEATER - "Sucker Fish Messiah"

Ryan Michael Teller’s Sucker Fish Messiah is the story of two brothers, Len and Paul, played by Darren Ryan and Shannon Jones. The older Len is a once-prosperous salesman who is on the verge of a nervous breakdown; Paul, on the other hand, is a successful songwriter who is preparing a move to LA. Len lives in the past, dreaming of his ex-wife, (unaware that she’s on her way to win him back), and he is haunted by vivid memories – especially one about the "sucker fish" they once owned. These qualities make the character even more endearing once he starts to unravel (kudos to Ryan, who plays him so convincingly). Len is the obvious star of Sucker Fish, but unfortunately he’s an interesting character trapped in an otherwise terrible play.

[Read on] at Show Business Weekly

MUSIC - The Subways, "Young for Eternity"

Do they say something negative about idle hands? The Subway’s first CD, Young for Eternity is a strong argument for spending time just tooling around, finding a feel for the rhythms and working out the chords, i.e., learning exactly what you can do if you want to rock. Thankfully, Billy Lunn has already fretted about the frets, and he’s put his finger on the right fingering, and along with Charlotte Cooper on the bass and Josh Morgan on drums, The Subways have produced a solid rock album.

[Read on] at Silent Uproar

THEATER - "Faith Healer"

Brien Friel’s play, Faith Healer, is not about hope. It’s about hopelessness: three companions, Frank (the faith healer), Grace (his wife), and Teddy (his promoter), who are alone and adrift, even after the twenty-odd years they have spent together. There are very real things that they want—Frank (to be needed), Grace (to be acknowledged), and Teddy (to be loved)—but these things are forever out of reach, even when they are right beside them. The play’s structure, four scene-long monologues (each essentially a one-act play), is therefore quite fitting: together, these stories complete their history, but each appears separately, dismally, and alone. In the end, we realize there is one thing worse than hopelessness: hopeless hope.

[Read on] at New Theater Corps

THEATER - "Worth"

You can have your cake and eat it too. That is, if your cake is family drama and your idea of eating is getting to watch some exotic dancing (or perhaps that’s just the frosting). Worth has convincing acting, though it’s a bit overwrought, and a nice script that, although basic, lives in something very real. Okay, so if you have your cake and eat it too, it won’t be fit for a queen—but a Ho-Ho can be satisfying too.

[Read on] at New Theater Corps

BOOK - Ben Marcus's "Notable American Women"

Ben Marcus’s Notable American Women takes the linguistic ideas of Derrida, couples them with the technical prose of early Borges, and then minces a psychotic philosophy into novel form (chopped up is the only way it’ll fit). The result is accordingly a minute, elegant study that’s crazy, often verbose, and extremely difficult. It is, ultimately, a harmless (and therefore pointless) postmodern jaunt into—where else?—Emotional Dysfunction.

Marcus uses a brazen verbal deconstruction and a descriptive maximism, and at times he makes English nothing more than a Clockwork plaything. In his rural Ohio, people spend their time being incarcerated in “socks” (or worse, buried under the earth, bombarded with words), drinking “behavior water” (for feelings are merely “an absence or surplus of water in the body”), or coolly regarding the prospects of their family slash project’s goal to “launch the child” into the world.

These are amusing concepts, pieced together by a real intellect and used with an even more intelligent wit, but they consume the plot, the characters, and the momentum, until Notable American Women lives only as a screed on the behavior and beliefs of a fictional cult (the Silentists), book-ended by two monologues from each of the narrator’s parents. The narrator, incidentally, is a retarded, soft, stilted child named Ben Marcus (think Mark Haddon’s Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, only nowhere as endearing). As for his parents’ sections: if you were to read only those sixty-odd pages (out of the full 240), you’d more than understand the fundamental point of the novel: our parents shape the world. The rest of the book only severs the reader’s emotional connection to anyone in it, and is a profound waste of time, somewhere between an alternative history and a technical manual. Neither realism nor magical realism, Notable American Women is pure mechanism, a clever artifice, dot dot dot. It is, fittingly, an oxymoron: brilliantly dull.

Here’s an example:

“1979. Jane Marcus occurs in Deep Ohio. She has an accurate walking style and can converse in one language. She sleeps lying down, and uses a filter called ‘hair’ to attract her mates. The small people in her house call her ‘Mother,’ and she answers them by collapsing the tension in her face, a release that passes for listening.”

This is a near perfect paragraph; it is strikingly original, deviously clever, and very well put. However, it occurs in the midst of a recurring chapter called “Dates,” which lists various events in this alternative history, none of which really tie into anything or even really tell much of a story. Rebellions are begun and quashed in the same paragraph, and there’s no personal investment or payoff for digesting these not-quite-informative fragments.

The other recurring chapter, even worse, is called “Names”: it is a study of the power of various names, and the effect of each name when it is used on the narrator’s sister (she dies, eventually, from the name Mary, and we are warned that the name “Lisa . . . is more dangerous than the words ‘fuck’ or ‘fag’ or ‘dilch’”). The other 12 chapters are usually as redundant or off-topic as these two, though they at least mention Ben Marcus (the character) once in a while. The meta-referential sections, like “Shushing the Father,” have momentum for brief moments (long enough to describe how Jane Dark, the figurehead of the Silentist movement, installed herself at the Marcus home), and then, like the stillness-obsessed Silentists themselves, all motion ceases. We get lengthy nonsense treatises like this:

“The chief way to determine the gratuitous bone content in the female head (shabble) is to tap its surface with a facial mallet over a period of a month or more, using a mallet style more like worrying than actual smashing. Worrying the same area of the head with the mallet will eventually break down the excess bone matter, much of which is at the back or crown of the head, and it will pass naturally from the body, through the tears or saliva or sweat. Any bones that can be shed this way are not important to the life of the body, but are a disposable shell that simply needs to be cracked free and passed.”

For a book that mostly details how a cult is attempting to restore balance to nature by ceasing to disturb the wind with their bodies and (especially) their mouths, this is a lot of hot air. Yes, Marcus is remarkably inventive, and he’s got a made-up phrase for everything (sometimes even using familiar words), but you have to ask yourself what the point is of a hot-air balloon ride in the middle of a total eclipse. Wouldn’t you rather see something, even if you had to stay on the ground to do so? Marcus occasionally treats us to a bold descriptive phrase (“his gait is a stooping apology against motion”), but all too rarely.

If there are nuggets worth salvaging in Notable American Women, they are philosophical. Though the narrative is rarely serious, it does occasionally hit upon valid points: that “unbidden emotions” is a redundant phrase, for instance, or “that wherever I go, I do damage to what was there, by either killing or displacing it, that my presence encourages something else’s absence, that the term ‘my body’ implies no one else’s body, that by moving through air and time, I kill what was attempting to rest or habituate or hold steady. I remove that thing from its chosen space and effectively deny its reentry. I act as a warden of a prison in reverse, since wherever I am, no one else can be . . .”

In the limited story of Notable American Women, it is revealed that Ben Marcus (the character) has failed to fulfill his parent’s designs. Rather than rising through adversity, he has grown to accept it, and allows himself to be used and abused without remorse—rather, he finds the perverse pleasure of a mental masochist. It must equally be revealed to you, the reader, that Ben Marcus (the author) has failed to fulfill his own design (or that, in succeeding, he has alienated the reader). “We must,” as one of the Marcus’s writes, “always be prepared to admit when a theory is merely lyrical, but fucked in practice.” Ladies and gentlemen, the practice—this book—is fucked.

THEATER - "Bone Portraits"

“You’ll notice I’ve compressed time a bit here,” says a very jocular Thomas Edison (the excellent Gian-Murray Gianino), the inventor cum sideshow narrator cum ringleader of Bone Portraits, a fantastically theatric new play. Edison pauses for a moment, adjusting a minute wrinkle on his bright red jacket. “Or maybe you won’t.” Another beat. “Kids these days,” he says, dismissively, walking behind a homemade proscenium (of ghost-white curtains), as he reveals more about the x-ray’s accidental birth and consequences.

It’s a lovely bit of meta-narrative, filled with knowing asides to the audience. Fitting, too, since there are moments where Deborah Stein’s carnival of a script is more confusing than a hall of mirrors, and you won’t know what’s going on. No matter: the incredibly talented director, Lear deBessonet, throws so many visual bones your way that you won’t care. “I’m a scientist and a showman,” Edison says (which explains why the show’s antics are so digestible). “Back then, there wasn’t that much of a difference between the two.”

[Read on] at New Theater Corps

THEATER - Stadttheater's "Slipped Disc" and "The Woman Before"

What happens when an already experimental theater (the HERE Arts Center) teams with the even edgier GTA (German Theater Abroad) program? Two US premieres of wild, boundary-pushing German works, three symposiums on the role of theater, four new staged readings, and the mission statement "no fun, no profit, no previews." This is Stadttheater, a month-long showcase that's as likely to impress as it is to disturb.

Featuring remarkable control of stagecraft (even when ill-used to obfuscate), these shows are likely to inspire directors and playwrights simply from the wide variety of approaches to storytelling and production. This is dialogue-opening material, and not just because certain effects will make your jaw drop. However, for the casual theatergoer, each hour-long show inevitably grows tedious or annoying -- the price of throwing so many darts at the wall. Still, the quality of work, at least on a visual level (the translations are sometimes uneven, or the narrative style too thick) merits the attention of all theatergoers on the lookout for an experience (that all too rare effect of modern theater).

-- Slipped Disc
The stronger (or simply more relatable) of the two mainstage Stadttheater productions, Slipped Disc - A Study of the Upright Walk looks at the inner lives of five office drones. The conclusion, which is also the impetus for the entire show, is that the modern worker is an emasculated creature, one who lives by the will of their whimsical and often cruel boss. Quitting, in the world of Slipped Disc, would accomplish nothing: they'd simply be unemployed (for there is no shortage of labor). And so these five people lap up humiliation after humiliation, all of which is artfully displayed by literal knives in the back or metaphorical displays of pathos that include eating toilet paper (i.e., shit). When they return to their office floor (where they are surrounded on two sides by audience members), they quickly take it out on each other, defining themselves by the cruelties they inflict on others.

For instance, Kretzky (a suave Sanjit De Silva) laughs off every little embarrassment as if it's a joke, and it's a pleasure to watch his smiling facade dissolve as he gloats in one aside about how he'll get his co-workers fired. (The delight is watching this second layer of reality, the one we normally repress, rise to the surface.) Hufschmidt (John Summerour), on the other hand, physically abuses the others, in particular Kruse (a gleefully pathetic Ron Domingo), before he too loses his facade, at one point devolving into a growling dog. Schmitt and Kristensen (Danielle Skraastad and Andrea Ciannavei) play the two women: one confident and belittling, the other hopeful yet hopeless. The contrasts are well illustrated by director Simone Blattner, who artfully makes the action too close for comfort.

Much as this violence is admirable, Blattner has a habit for belaboring certain points. Those uncomfortable moments where a joke has gone on for too long often stretch on (and on) into the artificial. It isn't viscerally uncomfortable, it's just dull. For example, when Kristensen gathers the characters together to air their complaints, the five actors stand there, silent and complacent, as if running out a clock rather than actually having nothing to say. (This is also how the play opens: to sit down, you must walk across the stage, around the immobile actors, and onto an elevated portion of the set.) Ingrid Lausund's script (translated by Henning Bochert) isn't very deep to begin with; attempting to draw a deeper significance out of it, or to make the words (or lack thereof) more resonant doesn't always work. But when it does (mostly if an actor's charisma sustains it), it's effective: Kruse's lengthy acceptance of the fact that Hufschmidt slaps him around for no reason grows more and more pathetic, until we are drowning in pity.

We can easily be any one of these spineless characters (thankfully, none are caricatures), and Slipped Disc does well to remind us that we can more easily talk our way into acceptance of circumstance than out of a situation.

-- The Woman Before
The Woman Before, on the other hand, reminds us of and tells us nothing. It is a show discontent with being a show, and quickly spirals out of control into performance art (some of which is admittedly entertaining). It is like a postmodern hard rock, perpetually (and ambiguously) angry, and not afraid to show it. And, rather than smashing the instruments after the concert, The Woman Before prefers to deconstruct itself during the performance itself.

The show opens simply enough in a hallway littered with boxes; Claudia (Cynthia Mace) has left the bathroom to ask her husband Frank (Roland Marx) about voices she heard, when suddenly she picks up a box, revealing Romy Vogtlander (Christen Clifford). When is a box not a box? When it's a door. Director Daniel Fish finds many other artsy uses for the boxes in this wide, horizontal space, too, but none are as effective as this first moment of surprise. Suddenly, the lights shift, and we're watching a scene five minutes earlier, between Frank and Romy, who reminds him of the vow he made when they were lovers 24 summers ago: to love her forever. Again, a promising start, and an interesting narrative device, neither of which will be used as well again.

The constant shifts in perspectives, to allow different characters to tell this story, makes for some interesting and disjointed theater, but all the skipping around in time never actually goes anywhere (except deeply into metaphor) and more often than not simply seems like a way of making the old seem new (and the ridiculous seem plausible). Playwright Roland Schimmelpfenning (translated here by David Tushingham), is famous in Germany, and this emboldens him to take fantastic risks, the price of which is the plot itself, followed shortly after by the characters (who, after a while, simply become narrators or disconnected observers).

The Woman Before might serve as a parable for modern disconnect in society (we keep everything boxed away), but with each treadmill-like step forward (movement without progress), the play becomes riddled with metaphor until it serves as nothing more than a warning to other playwrights. We can accept stage directions being read -- even by characters involved in the scene, and even when they're supposed to be dead -- because it allows the minimalism of action itself. The full nudity (prudes beware) is acceptable as well, it conveys an openness that makes the violence it accompanies all the more tragic. Even the stilted, melodramatic dialogue works -- to a point -- because it serves the repetition of scenes and uses verbal cues as landmarks. But that all these devices should serve no greater good beyond the glib display of what is possible onstage . . . it seems needlessly cruel.

The Woman Before brings Sarah Kane to mind in its reckless energy and presentation, and the direction is admirable in that it achieves (at least during Romy's box-smashing mood swing) a total loss of control. However, there's no room for error when attempting to show chaos (paradoxical as that may sound). When actors start to trip over their lines and stumble across the stage, it looks slovenly, not chaotic, and the mania is clearly rehearsed (and off-pitch). If there is tragedy, it is in the ill-explored parallel of the father's son, Andi (Jeremiah Miller), and his last evening with his girlfriend, Tina (Diana Ruppe), whom he has also promised to love forever. But Tina is kept in the periphery, where she delivers monologues via a microphone, practically exploited in an attempt to deliver some of the author's grand and poetic statements about love. Stuck in the background, along with the plot and characters, the real thrust of The Woman Before remains difficult to fall in love with.

FILM - "Mission Impossible III"

For a summer action film that begins neither in summer or with action, Mission Impossible 3 is, impossible as it may seem, a thrilling spy movie. It has the exotic locations (China, Germany, Rome), it has the extreme stunt (BASE jumps), lots of chases (on car, on foot, by chopper), a great plot (filled with the requisite twists), and slick espionage (of the Impossible Mission Force kind). It also has Philip Seymour Hoffman, who plays a ruthless arms dealer in the most simplistic (and sinister) fashion. So okay, Tom Cruise is once again Ethan Hunt, but that's okay, and given the way J. J. Abrams kicks him around (Murphy's Law hurts), even the most stalwart Cruise-haters will enjoy this film.

The stakes are also higher than ever: the spy genre is usually devoid of anything beyond a one-night stand, but this film opens with Davian (Hoffman) about to shoot Hunt's wife (Michelle Monaghan) right in front of a very helpless Ethan; if that's not enough, he's also got a bomb in his head. The film then kicks back to happier days, explaining just why Davian is so ticked at Hunt (a kidnapping in Vatican City, i.e., the heist of all heists), and why Ethan's come out of retirement on the day of his engagement (the disappearance of one of his trainees). With the exposition done, the film lurches into a series of high-octane missions, all of which are aided and abetted by Hunt's lovable team (Ving Rhames, Jonathan Rhys Meyers and Maggie Q.). Take that, Oceans 13; this is a rougher, and therefore more exciting, version of what you do. That's not all the star power either: Billy Crudup and Lawrence Fishburne play the IMF executives overseeing operations, and Simon Pegg (of Shaun of the Dead) makes a cameo as the tech guy.

J. J. Abrams, who has perfected the art of mixing a little action with a lot of spying on TV's Alias, is the perfect director here, and brings the emphasis of the Mission Impossible series back to being about impossible missions. The action itself is the reward for all the stealthy sequences, and the script resembles a French dinner: the courses keep coming. There's no choice regarding whether or not to see this film: accept the mission and live vicariously for the next 126 minutes.

MUSIC - The Ark, "State of the Ark"

The Ark comes in on a fading wave of electronic static, and they ride that neon surf until all that glitters is bold. Caroming off a line like “We’ll go shim-shim shammey and get whimsy and get whammy,” the lead singer Ola Salo makes tracks like “Clamour for Glamour” a blitzkrieg of fun, even if those bombshells might need to drop some acid first to be real hits. Of course, some of those hits are abysmal craters, and halfway through State of the Ark, the band tumbles into it, as if “Let Me Down Gently” were an imperative rather than a track title.

[Read on] at Silent Uproar

THEATER - "The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial"

An exercise in character acting, The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial is a stage version of your weekly Law and Order TV programming. Here you’ll find eleven (mostly) fine male actors (supported by a dozen extras, or for all intensive purposes, “props”) giving long dramatic monologues ranging from naïve guilt to estranged guilt to aggravated guilt . . . the list goes on. Given the utter lack of stage direction or scenic dazzle, the entire production focuses on whoever is sitting center stage in the witness chair, and while it’s dull to watch, the script, just over fifty years old, crackles with some really good theatrical moments. (It goes without saying that, given those negatives, it would have to.)

[Read on] at New Theater Corps

MUSIC - Smoking Popes, "At Metro"

Their first performance after seven years, Smoking Popes’ At Metro is a reunion tour, a fast-paced and energetic live performance, a best-of collection, and a reason for the group to stay together. I’d never heard this Chicago-based band before, so I can’t compare this performance to their recorded tracks, but this DVD/CD makes it clear even to newcomers that Smoking Popes should stay in it for the long haul. Three brothers, three guitars, a drummer, and a cocktail of classic adrenaline-pumping shreds coupled with pop lyrics make for songs that will satisfy those in it for the music as well as those in it for the soul.

[Read on] at Silent Uproar

THEATER - "Screwmachine/Eyecandy"

There are only so many ways to beat a dead horse and C.J. Hopkins’ screwmachine/eyecandy or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Big Bob hits them all. The story centers on Patter-happy game-show host Big Bob, played by David Calvitto, who opens a political and philosophical cans of worms while interrogating his two contestants, Dan and Maura Brown, played by Bill Coelius and Nancy Walsh. But the proverbial worms here don’t catch any fish. They just grow less subtle by the second.

[Read on] at Show Business Weekly

FILM - Tribeca 2006: Day 6

--- Al Franken: God Spoke
Here is a mildly amusing documentary that need never have been made. Al Franken should be on tour, doing political stand-up, not mired in the factual depiction of his Bush-induced misery. The amusing moments come from learning more about Franken's past, replete with the obligatory SNL skits, and the mild portions are the rest of the film, which depict (in passing) the creation of Air America (the liberal talk radio), Fox News's abortive lawsuit against Franken's "Liars and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them," and the 2004 campaign trail. But really: when is enough enough? The problem with politics today is that rather than actively doing something, we continue to wallow in the past, and while it's swell that people like Franken point out the constant stream of lies currently passing as news (from both television and the government), this documentary accomplishes nothing new itself. Those who already thought Ann Coulter was a narrow-minded bigot will continue to do so, those who already knew Bill O'Reilly was a bully can feast on their affirmation. For the rest of the world, Al Franken: God Spoke will accomplish absolutely nothing.

Compared to Fahrenheit 9/11, this documentary captures very few gaffes from the hard right, and the mockery of them is quite limited. Not that a political documentary has to (or should be) funny, but it's actually quite dull and dry without the humor, and it's very surprising that a film starring Al Franken, and including jokes, skits, and biased commentary isn't. Al Franken: God Spoke is stuck between being a hands-on biased investigation of how the conservatives have bullied the media and being a passive observation of the same. This failure to be judgmental or unbiased makes the film ineffectual and, as stated earlier, unnecessary.

--- First Snow
Here's a rule: don't ever go to a fortune-teller. You don't want to know what's going to happen. In Jimmy Munson's case (as is often the case in psychological thrillers), he finds out that he's going to die. And not of old age. At some point after the titular "first snow," according to the requisitely bucolic psychic Vacaro (played perfectly by J.K. Simmons), Munson is going to die. As an actor, you'd think Guy Pearce, who plays Munson, would do better confronting his own death. After all, doesn't he almost always play someone who is in perpetual fear of death? In this case, he's sort of bogged down by destiny (i.e., the script), and no matter how he enunciates his lines, he can't get away from the by-the-numbers progression of scenes. Mark Fergus, to his credit, makes the whole thing look pretty good, but the suspense isn't edge-of-the-seat, let alone seat-of-the-seat, as most audience members will probably stand up and walk out of the theater midway through the film upon realizing that nothing is happening.

Perhaps it takes too long for Munson to start fighting his fate, i.e., to seek out the person who might wish him harm (his former best friend, Vincent), and perhaps he's too chummy with his girlfriend and new best friend. Maybe all of that fooling around belies (and negates) any hope of dramatic tension. Or maybe the whole "fighting fate" theme needs a new spin. Whatever the reason, you don't need your fortune told to avoid First Snow: just save your money (twice), and skip it.

FILM - Tribeca 2006: Day 5

Who has time to be sick when there are all these movies to see? I'm having a blast. So's my nose. Day 5 Riccio . . .





--- Air Guitar Nation
AIr Guitar Nation is a documentary about the Air Guitar World Championships (a proud product of Finland), and America's entry into the 2003 games courtesy of David "C-Diddy" Jung and the resilient Dan "Bjorn Turoque" Crane. The concept is funny enough, and it only becomes more laughable when we follow around the people who take it seriously. It also boasts more quotable lines than any scripted film, quirky zen absurdities like: "To air is human, to air guitar is divine." Then again, as one of the "guitarists" points out, it's actually a lot less absurd to watch than figure skating, if you really, really think about it.

Though their "craft" is ridiculous, the desire to be the best in the world at something is a compelling quest, and the characters are all so sincere that it's impossible not to get sucked in. Also, so far as performance art goes, watching people play an invisible guitar in visible (and wholly ridiculous) outfits is a lot of fun. (Also a little disturbing, such as one totally nude performer who plucks away at his, er, his, um, his . . . "banjo.") No matter how wacky, Alexendra Lipsitz's direction keeps the film steady, and the narrative arc is quite satisfying, if not a little too pat (as if it were scripted, even).

For a movie that is literally about nothing, in the purest sense of the word, Air Guitar Nation hits a lot of the right notes, and is anything but a bunch of hot air.

--- American Cannibal: The Road to Reality
American Cannibal, a surprisingly sleek and scathing documentary by Perry Grebin and Michael Nigro lacks only one thing: full access to their subject, "American Cannibal," a reality TV show pitched by two out-of-work TV writers (Gil S. Ripley and Dave Roberts) and bought by Kevin Blatt (distributor/"publicist" of the famous Hilton sex tape, A Night in Paris). As in Lost in La Mancha, everybody in this film seems to be out of control, save for the documentarians, but as informative as they are about the whole process of making TV, from pitch to production, their final act gives us all the brush off. That's more than a little rude, considering how much they make us invest in the film to that point.

American Cannibal works because it has resonant characters, a lively pace, and plenty of good humor about the whole reality TV subject. It's almost painful to watch everyone shit all over their good intentions, though as with most reality projects, there's a certain pleasure in watching a friendship (and their production company, KanDu) crumble, too. Also, it's hard to feel completely bad for them, given that the show they're producing goes beyond exploitation. The cast believes they are filming "Starvation Island" (to see who can last the longest without food); the plan is actually to test how they'll react to the prospect that they might have to resort to cannibalism. The frightening thing is that with just a little more luck and a lot more experience, "American Cannibal" might've been on your television instead of premiering at a film festival.

American Cannibal is good, solid film-making, and it's entertaining to watch. And, so far as we know, nobody died. What more could you ask of reality? (And isn't that the point?)

--- Mini's First Time
There is a first time for everything: Mini's First Time, a pitch-black comedy about a rebellious daughter who sleeps with her stepfather and uses him to kill her mother, is actually hysterical fun. Most of that has to do with the pitch-perfect casting: Alec Baldwin as the morally sketchy stepfather, Carrie-Anne Moss as the drunken whore (i.e., the mother), and Jeff Goldblum as the neighbor/pedophile. I'm sure one of those is a stretch. As for Nikki Reed, who plays Mini, she's no Lolita, and this film's a reverse on the whole concept: if anybody is using other people, it's Mini, who gets a thrill out of "firsts." That's how she first sleeps with her stepfather, in fact: being an escort is just another experiment for her.

Of course, after the murder, a persistent cop (Luke Wilson) starts closing in on the two deviant lovers (though Woody Allen might disagree), and it turns out that things aren't all fun and games. That's not entirely true though: writer/director Nick Guthe keeps all the disgusting violence as fun and games, and that's exactly what makes the whole thing so deliciously entertaining. There's no room for guilt, so it's just pleasure pleasure the whole way through, and that's a sin I don't mind committing.

--- The TV Set
The TV Set, directed and written by Jake Kasdan, is not a documentary, but I can believe that it's a fairly accurate depiction of the struggle pilots undergo to make it on air, and of the constant compromises artists endure in order to get their work through an assembly line of executives who think they know better. The casting is a little humdrum (save for Sigourney Weaver's brilliant performance as the bitch of all bitch executives), but it's not that they're bad in their roles so much as that they're playing such ordinary roles. David Duchovney (the writer) may never escape typecasting, and Ioan Griffudd (the second-in-command) is almost hiding (from Fantastic Four, perhaps?) in his role.

Like I said, The TV Set almost works better as a documentary (or, like Pittsburgh, as a docu-comedy): some of the scenes are quite slow (by necessity) and the narrative structure is a little bland and uncompelling to those who aren't looking for semi-subtle parody (it's certainly far from over-the-top). Anybody in the industry will no doubt laugh about this film over a couple of drinks, but they'll have earned those laughs. The rest of us have to work harder to appreciate the film, and that's the last thing you want out of a comedy, even a nice, simple, decent one like this.

--- Lockdown, USA
I'm sure this statement will cause someone to simply write me off as a racist, but I assure you, there is nothing sinister in my harsh assessment of Lockdown, USA as a poorly made documentary. I disagree with the message of the film (that the drug laws are "too" harsh). This is not because I want to see more people in jail; this is because Lockdown, USA hasn't convinced me that the current policy is wrong. Their linchpin case is Darryl Best, and I sympathize with the fact that an innocent man may have to spend a minimum of fifteen years behind bars (thanks to the Rockefella laws), and that his family is suffering. But that's not really the fault of the Rockefella laws so much as with the whole system of conviction; the problem is that Best's lawyers could not prove reasonable doubt against an aggressive D.A. None of these questions arise in Lockdown, USA, but that's because the film is agitprop: it isn't interested in solutions, it just wants to glorify Russell Simmons, and with him, hip-hop as a socially-conscious and mobilizing force. (If anything, it does the opposite.)

Given its presentation, Lockdown, USA is practically a comedy: Simmons doesn't know much about the law he's trying to abolish (nor, apparently, do any of his hip-hop peers, like Fat Joe). But he's got money, money he's willing to throw around in an effort to show the "power" of hip-hop (and his own munificence). This makes him look incredibly stupid (as the filthy rich often do), and is a strong argument against people like Simmons getting involved in politics. (Too bad that's not the point of this documentary.) I always had this image of Russell Simmons as the nice, laidback guy who comes out at the end of HBO's Def Poetry Jam: it's weird to hear him cursing and saying "nigger." In any case, for some "unexplicable" reason (heavy on sarcasm), he alienates the political lobbiests who recruited him to their cause in the first place, and winds up being a scapegoat for the minimal reform that Pataki eventually passes off as a "huge" achievement.

All in all, Lockdown, USA points out some interesting statistics about the increasing market for prisoners as a commodity (and hence the necessity for harsher laws to keep them there), but the whole film seems so unfounded and unfocused that it's actually hard to follow. This one-sided piece of unobjective drivel will play well to its target demographic--huge hip-hop fans--but to everyone else, it will appear simply as it is: aimless propaganda for a hopeless cause.

FILM - Tribeca 2006: Day 4

This photo doesn't show it, but at this point
I'm really, really sick. As if that's going to stop me.

--- Pittsburgh

Thank god for Jeff Goldblum. Not that he's an amazingly deep actor, or an incredibly varied performer, or anything Oscar-worthly like that. But he is sincerely insincere, and for that, we love him. His new film, Pittsburgh, is a narrative documentary that looks at Jeff Goldblum's turn as Henry Hill in a regional production of The Music Man. Goldblum quickly gets himself in too deep, drawing scorn from his agent, the love of his girlfriend, and the skepticism of his best friend (Ed Begely, Jr.). The difference between Pittsburgh and the fourth season of Curb Your Enthusiasm (where Larry David joins the cast of The Producers), is that Goldblum really did perform in the two-week production, which makes the line between reality and improvisation a lot harder to see. And that's all the merrier for the audience, since it makes the self-deprecation and parody more potent.

A couple of things don't work, such as a side-plot about Ed Begely, Jr.'s "Solarman 2000" (a portable solar device), and most of the training footage is spliced into an unsatisfying montage format. One also wonders exactly why Moby is in this film (amusing as it is to picture him as a sleazy rock star who gets off on pictures that his female fans send him of themselves masturbating). There are a lot of disconnects like this (which is bound to happen when you try to cobble together 400 hours of footage into a narrative), but when the movie sticks on point (and it usually does), it is hysterical. As the days grow longer and the performance approaches, the commentary on movie stars tackling real theater becomes more exciting, and the barbs (mostly at Goldblum's expense, e.g., the director's unkind words to him) grow ever more amusing.

There's a lot to like about Pittsburgh (the movie, at least), and it's a feel good comedy. And nobody (not even Goldblum) was hurt in the making of this film.


--- Lonely Hearts

For all the beautiful camera work and lush 1949 stylings, there's something very . . . well, lonely about Lonely Hearts. Todd Robinson does fine as a director, and he handles his actors well, but there's something oddly disconcerting about the script's dramatic structure. The violence is stark enough, but just as the troubled cop (John Travolta) is left feeling troubled at the film's end, so is the audience. It's not that justice hasn't been served, and it's not that Jared Leto and Salma Hayek don't channel pure evil as the Lonely Hearts Killers (Hayek especially) -- it is perhaps the lack of any real sideplot or anything beyond just the chase itself, and its Hollywood ending. The drama seems to have been sucked dry: we may study these characters, tortured individuals all, but we can't hope to understand them, nor are we really drawn into the struggle. There's just not enough for us to get attached to.

This is a good vehicle for all the actors attached (with the exception of James Gandolfini, who is, and will always be, a trademark character), and the vehicle itself looks slick. But by spoiling the end of the film at the beginning, and by a lot of other narrow-minded choices, Robinson doesn't actually take us anywhere, except around in a big, pointless circle.

FILM - Tribeca 2006: Day 3

--- Walker Payne
In Walker Payne, a period piece about a ne'er-do-well miner (Jason Patric) and his efforts to win back his two daughters from his bitter ex-wife (Drea de Matteo), the town itself isn't the only thing that's depressed. Through the sharp lens of director Matt Williams, the whole picture is a bleak tale--even at its most romantic--about men with limited means whose best just isn't ever good enough. By keeping the landscape and situations run-down, Williams manages to evokes sympathy for even the ex-wife (who is holding Walker's children hostage until he pays her child support or a lump sum of $5000 for her to walk away).

The stage is set for some Greek drama, for some heavy, heavy loss to go down, and the one failing of Williams is that he seems to shy away from the brutality of every shot. He struggles to find the upbeat in even the most bleak of scenes, and that lessens the raw emotion that he evokes by introducing the film's get rich quick plan: dog fighting. Despite all that Walker lacks, he's blessed with a faithful, lovable dog, one that happens to have pit-bull in him, and if he wants his children back, he'll have to gamble the life of his most innocent and loyal friend. Sam Shepard, who plays the huckster Cyrus, exudes sleaziness at every turn, and he's the one unlikeable character in the film (which also makes him quite impressive as an actor). Ultimately, it's Jason Patric's commanding performance as a haunted, desperate man that steals the film, but for some reason, villains are always more fun to watch.

The film's inevitable conclusion should come as no surprise, but it packs a sucker punch thanks to a neat little plot twist. Williams still shies away from how violent the film could have been (far from, say, Amores Perros), but for most American audiences, Walker Payne will be a welcome story of struggle, thoroughly sad and poignant.

--- Civic Duty
So it is possible for a bad director to mess up a good script. In Civic Duty, Jeff Renfroe manages to ruin good performances from Peter Krause and Khaled Abol Naga (as well as a fine appearance by West Winger Richard Schiff, more or less playing himself) and a decent (if not overly straightforward) script by Andrew Joiner. How does Renfroe pull off this magic act? A poor choice in original score, awful lighting design, and shaky camera work that doesn't fit the slick feel of the dialogue.

You could argue that Renfroe chooses the shakiness to depict Krause's increasing paranoia of his new Middle Eastern neighbor. You might say that the perpetual gloom of even the daylight outside is meant to shroud all the niceties in the darkness of suspicion. But these are technical arguments meant for a dissertation: in terms of enjoying the film, they make everything look blackwashed and given the film's already made-for-TV soundtrack, keeps the whole production very basic and redundant.

If there's suspense in the narrative--that is, if we're intrigued by Krause's unusual discoveries about his neighbor, or caught up in his meetings with a grumbly FBI agent (Schiff)--all that drama is worn away by more nagging questions, like "Why doesn't anybody turn on the lights around here? Why is it always raining? What kind of man, terrorist or otherwise, continues to provoke his neighbor?" These silly questions eclipse the more important issues of racial profiling and the American propensity for fear (and ultimately, the script's lackluster denouement seems to promote fear as our civic duty).

Civic Duty is a hot topic that grows colder every day, and the best thing for audiences everywhere might be if this film just gets iced for good.

Aaron is drowning in films!

FILM - Tribeca 2006: Day 2

You love the festival for its crowd. There's nothing better than seeing a films in a theater packed with people who actually want to see them (because they were in it, or otherwise). Even waiting in line for my press ticket . . . you go to a film festival in part for the experience itself.

--- Hatchet

A gory throwback to slasher films of yore, the only thing sharper than the hatchet in question is Adam Green's script (his directing ain't bad neither). Hatchet is surprisingly entertaining given the flimsy premise, and though we've all heard the horror schtick before ("I ain't even supposed to be here!"), when it comes right down to it, nothing beats a bunch of teens trapped in a mystical New Orleans swamp, hunted by the spirit of ol' Victor Crowley. (The choice to make two characters glorified strippers -- boobies everywhere for the first half-hour -- that doesn't hurt Hatchet's target demographic either.)

The acting is also surprisingly first-rate: these characters make their shallowness funny by playing it straight, and both the token black guy (Deon Richmond) and sassy Asian (Parry Shen) rise above stereotypes to be genuinely endearing (well, at least at times). The only problem with Hatchet is that it's more of a bludgeon than a hatchet. The entire film comes at you in brutal rushes, and the killing is never especially clever, just especially bloody. That's fine for robust horror fans, but for anyone outside that niche audience, the violence gets a little old. Luckily, Green balances the "interludes" with comedy (a certain scene with a raccoon in the bushes comes to mind), and the laughing serves as enough of a diversion to whet our appetites for more (even if it's more of the same).

Victor Crowley is no Jason (no offense to Kane Hodder, who plays them both), but there's a big fat "yet" attached there, as the one is a throwback to the other. In the meantime, this is an enthusiastic film for horror enthusiasts, one that chops to the heart of an often dull genre.

--- Fifty Pills
If you mixed American Pie with The Rules of Attraction and kept the whole thing really light, you'd get Fifty Pills, a teen coming-of-age comedy about a freshman on the verge of expulsion who turns to selling exstacy as a way out. If he can sell his roommate's fifty pills by the end of the day, he can pay off his college bills; if not, he can kiss everything he loves goodbye. This plot, based (loosely?) on writer Matthew Perniciaro's experiences at NYU leaves a lot of openings for cheap college humor, and both Perniciaro and director Theo Avgerinos leap at the chance to showcase Darren's deviant peers.

The problem they face in Fifty Pills is that none of their situations are particularly funny. Darren's roommate, Coleman (John Hensley) is a likeable bastard, but unfunny. And Darren's reactions to him (spoken through the fourth wall to the audience) come across as forced. Of the quirky cast, Darren's crush, Gracie (Kristin Bell) comes across as shallow, and the various peers get too little screentime to be anything more than anecdotes. The S&M queen who shares an apartment with her grandmother doesn't go anywhere, and while Eddie Kay Thomas is hysterical as Ralphie, a Diff'rent Strokes-obsessed addict, his reappearence later in the film is a desperate plea for laughs. Maybe the writer and director realized that the "villain," Eduardo (Michael Pena) stops being funny after the first time he mentions "crapping his pants during the hammer dance," or maybe they just don't know how to write a scene devoid of gags.

In any case, Fifty Pills operates as an average teen comedy, and since that's already well below the standards of good cinema, this is one film you can skip.

FILM - Tribeca 2006: Day 1

Three films and four hours of work later: Day 1 Riccio.

--- Day Break

Not just based on a true story, but grittily filmed and as painstakingly real as a true story, “Day Break” is a powerful Iranian film about Islamic law. At first, we enter this world through a fictional documentary, watching two prisoners on death row prepare for execution. They take a medical exam, they write out their wills, and then they walk into a large room, where they meet the families of those they have wronged. According to the law, only the next of kin can sentence a murder to death, and if they choose retribution over forgiveness, they must carry out the execution themselves. The odd case of Mansour, then, is that this is his third time to the execution chamber . . . and the third time that the family has not appeared. Mansour is now a victim of the system, and when he learns that he must wait another forty days without knowing if he is to be forgiven or killed, his in-between status becomes a torture that uses his memories and visits from his wife and family as the implement.

The whole film is powerfully acted, and, due to the camera’s close presence and early establishment of routine, unflinchingly real. When Mansour returns to the prison, still awaiting his fate, “Day Break” drops the nicety of a documentary and goes inside his head, using flashbacks to make us sympathize with his anguish. Killer or not, nobody deserves the agonizing torture of not knowing. Within these 84 minutes, director Hamid Rahmanian even manages to widen the scope to Mansour’s family, and the effect shows that going eye for an eye will not only leave the world blind, but emotionally dead.

I can’t speak for the authenticity of the film, but even simply as a psychoanalytical commentary on life, “Day Break” is extremely effective. The stark, sometimes grainy images are haunting, and the prison walls of this story are inescapable. It hardly matters: this is the film to see.

--- The Elephant King

Oh, what a difference a little change of pace can make. Seth Grossman’s story of two brothers who are polar opposites is nothing new, but his location, Thailand, makes it an immersive film. If images of elephants walking through city slums and drug-fueled jaunts through the local color don’t amuse you, Jonno Roberts, who plays the manic brother, Jake, is just as fascinating. He hits so many notes at once that his every step is a discordant symphony, and he’s a polarizing presence onscreen: things light up around him. This is a lucky find for Grossman’s script, which tends to dull things down, especially given its by-the-books approach to the cathartic final act. (You can tell this by the way Ellen Burstyn, who graces this film as Jake and Oliver’s mother, sleepwalks through her all-too-few scenes.)

As a distraction technique, shooting exotic locations is equally effective. The audience seems to forget that Jake is a con artist who fixes kickboxing fights, even when his crimes turn on him, and it’s not likely that you’ll care how haphazardly all the side-plots are discarded, like the cheap Thailand hookers Grossman loves to depict. No, we’re stuck watching Jonno Roberts traipse through Thailand like some latter-day Hunter S. Thompson in Vegas, and it’s a wild, wild ride. To Grossman’s credit, it ultimately goes somewhere creative, and given how easy it would be simply to stick with the scenery, it’s a bold choice. Beautiful and bold (but rarely both at once), “The Elephant King” is a testament to shooting on location: the real mystique will always overpower the artificial.

--- The Promise

Beauty is one thing; quality is another. Kaige Chen’s new film, “The Promise,” is China’s most expensive film ever, but you can’t buy happiness, and you can’t buy a good movie either, especially with a lackluster plot. No matter how magnificently exotic the sets are, they all come across as artificially as the characters, for there is nothing propping them up. There’s just some threadbare “promise,” one that has already been broken by Chen—that of a good film.

The introduction is jibber-jabber (for lack of a better word): for all the talk of Gods on earth, there’s only one who shows up (she gets the worst FX treatment), and she doesn’t even fight. For an epic Chinese swords-and-sorcery film, this dearth of jaw-dropping martial arts and exquisitely shot romance is inexcusable. If anything, all the effects merely clutter up the fighting sequences and love scenes: it obscures the action.

There are some interesting, if stereotypical, characters, including a slave (who is actually more than a slave), a brave general (who is actually not so brave), a beautiful princess (who is actually cursed), a mystical assassin (who is actually a nice guy), and a ruthless tyrant (who is actually . . . well, he’s actually badass). If only there were something to make all these stock characters tick. Instead, they just pose for the camera, in the lush and relentlessly awesome set, and do exactly as directed. There’s no spirit in the fighting, in the acting, or even (really) in the cinematography, which is ultimately just a lot of bloated cash rendered into sundry special effects on screen.

“The Promise” is a technical exercise, the result of cash sweeping away a director. Rather than putting together a powerful film, he shows off all that he can do, and it’s unsatisfying and far from epic. Looks are deceptive, especially if all you get is looks. (Nor are all the scenes beautiful: a stampede of bulls early in the film is sure to win the Razzie for worst CG; that, or what appears to be a “cage match” between two rivals.)

FILM - Tribeca 2006: Day Zero

Hey there, testing, testing, one, two. Is this thing still on? Today marks the grand experiment: take a full-time worker, expose him to ten days of festival screening, and see what happens to his mind. The following is a bit of cheatery, that is, films I watched prior to the festival starting. I apologize for the tomfoolery, and I'll list 'em, as always, in order of likeability.

--- Wah-Wah

Two films and Nicholas Hoult (About a Boy) is already typecast as the weird British kid who comes of age. It's only a matter of time before he grows up too much, but he's becoming a fine actor, Wah-Wah, a thoroughly British film, is also a thoroughly fun film. Yes, fun, despite the fact that his father (Gabriel Byrne) is the kind of alcoholic who not only pulls a gun on his son, but fires it. And yes, fun, even though his mother (Miranda Richardson) has a physics-defying stick up her ass, one that we see another man screwing around with while Ralph (Hoult) "sleeps" in the backseat of the car. It's a charming sort of evil, lavishly shot in any case, and one of those neccessary crimes, you know, the kind that keep the plot moving.

Emily Watson's powerhouse performance as the convention-shattering American (Ruby) who marries Ralph's father (the "shaker-upper" for those who are unfamiliar with the coming-of-age genre), that's what really keeps the film moving. A historical piece, set in the last days British rule in Swaziland, Wah-Wah is just a bunch of random noise and babble until Ruby, a real gem of a character, gives us a translation we can relate to. I never knew Watson could play such a vivacious part: Wah-Wah's real success comes from allowing her to.

Perhaps there's too much crammed into Wah-Wah's two hours: it does seem like a chaotic carousel, going around and around (where it stops, no one knows). But I wouldn't give up the shots of Carousel rehearsals, the brilliant South African landscape, or the quite moments of Ralph playing with his puppets. Well, okay, maybe I could do without the latter. The one flaw of Richard E. Grant's story and direction is that he has saddled almost all of his characters with endearing but unnecessary mannerisms, and while Aunt Gwen's (Julie Walters) constant "sun stroke" (a euphamism for inebriation) is hysterical, Ralph's facial spasms are inexplicable.

Then again, a film like Wah-Wah being more than another standard-issue coming of age . . . that's a bit inexplicable too. (Translation: Emily Watson.) But it finds charisma, grace, and some rare moments of beauty out in the desert, so here's to hobbly-jobbly breaking free of hodge-podge and making some damn jolly sense.


--- Flock of Dodos

“Flock of Dodos,” the first documentary to touch on the big Kansas debate between pompous evolutionists and shadily-backed Intelligent Designers, is a homegrown, low-budget affair that’s more often pleasing than irritating, but far from a finished product. Randy Olson, the native Kansas man behind this project, keeps a too-passive eye on the debate, ultimately eschewing sides to point out that the real issue is whether or not evolutionists can adapt (like the Dodo) to America’s need for “simple answers to complex questions.” Along the way, he paints a nice picture of the Red states as being peaceful debaters who just speak their unique common sense, but that side is as much a whitewash as the more polarized films that make southerners into fanatics and loons. Worse still, Olson’s balance is off, and the only evolutionists we see come across as being unhinged, unapproachable, and really, really pompous.

Olson also has the mistaken impression that he needs to clutter his narrative with graphic animations and in-jokes that could very well be straight out of “Super Size Me.” He doesn’t have Spurlock’s charm, or Michael Moore’s presence in front of the camera, and his circus acts are exactly what they appear to be: needless clowning. Where he excels is in his earthiness, a preternatural affability that makes him the guy next door. He’s best at his simplest, which is probably why his shining cinematic moment involves shit.

Rabbit shit, that is. In his most lucid moment, he illustrates the biggest counterpoint to intelligent design out there: the clear presence of unintelligent design. Nothing is stupider than the rabbit’s digestive system, which ferments food in the anus and forces them to re-eat what they excrete to survive. As he and his “homeboy” watch a tape of their rabbit “totally doin’ it,” it strikes the audience as just how real this moment is. Away from all the cartoons and stoic interviews, Olson actually finds a way to be honestly entertaining.

For all his unwarranted dabbling and shoddy camera work, Olson’s documentary frequently hits on bright little moments like these, and while the movie feels disjointed as a whole, these individual scenes are worth mentioning. So is his overall point: these are people just like us, but with different beliefs, and if we simply look down on this so-called “other half” of America, we’ll be the extinct ones . . . the ones who can’t adapt.

--- Lunacy

Lunacy, a Czech Republic interpretation of two Edgar Allen Poe short stories with a Marquis de Sade-type character (not too subtly called "The Marquis") lives up to its name. Erratic, often confusing, and filled with fits of meat-puppetry (stop-motion animated meat), Lunacy is a weird film, but far from the philosophical horror film it's billed as. Lunacy isn't even a horror film: aside from what we see happening to meat, we don't see anything happen to the characters, and the implications are a bit too cartoonish, caught in Jan Svankmajer's disinterested gaze. The only character who seems to fit is the protagonist, Jean Berlot (Pavel Liska), who lists across the screen like the camera itself. Because of his own idle nature, we can get swept up in what is happening to him, since he rarely does anything on his own. Unfortunately, the things that happen to him are too episodic to link together, and the heretical Church scene clashes with the mistaken burial scene, and even more so with the film's main narrative thrust in an insane asylum that is perhaps being run by a madman. Don't worry if that didn't make sense: Lunacy is meant to be crazy. It's just not mad enough.

--- Kiss Me Again

William Tyler Smith is a strange person. As a writer, he explores the illogical emotion called love, watching a “perfect” relationship succumb to the lust of bigamy and the thrill of experimentation. But as a director, he keeps everything as logical as his protagonist’s demeanor: he talks a good game, but when it comes to exploring the exotic and the irrational, he’s as scripted and solid as a Showtime special. Kiss Me Again is nothing special: it’s tame, and it’s safe, and it’s boring.

One scene stands out, in which the married couple, looking for a way to spice their way out of a romantic rut, visits a house of couples to participate in some weird communal orgy. The whole scene runs like a carnival freak show, replete with weird angles, illusions, and a whole tray full of sex toys. This sequence is disturbing and excellent . . . and it doesn’t fit the rest of the movie at all. Does Smith want to show us deviants or to does he want to peel off that stereotype, to show the normalcy beneath our sexual urges. Does he want to show us that maybe monogamy isn’t for us, no matter how good we have it?

I couldn’t tell you. Kiss Me Again is a rough hodgepodge of scenes that dance around the edge of a touchy subject. The dance all too rarely gets erotic, and the dancers stay far from the flames of passion. Casting Darrell Hammond as the best friend is an act of desperation: yes, he makes Jeremy London look better (and he’s a dead ringer for Brendan Frasier in looks only), but not that much better. By the end of the film—as the threesome gets more complicated, tangled in heartstrings—everybody is in tears, but that’s just a poor makeup job. Good news for the ASPCA, I guess: no hearts were harmed in the making of this film.

BOOK - "Liquidation"

Imre Kertesz’s novel, Liquidation, reads like one of Paul Auster’s meta-fictional detective stories. However, Kertesz isn’t interested in exploring the elements of chance that influence our life: tragedy and suffering have already written our destinies, and luck has nothing to do with it. It does require a certain wit though, and so the author allows a Nabokovian narrative to lead the first third of the text: Kingbitter is obsessed with a play called “Liquidation.” The script, often cited in the book, also has a character named Kingbitter, and this character also analyzes a play called “Liquidation.” This contextual epaulette doesn’t come across as a trapping: it flows giddily across the page, giving breath to the parallel stories: Kingbitter is trying to cope with B.’s death, and B. is struggling to come to terms with the legacy of his birth (a life founded on death).

Kingbitter happens to be a literary editor, and as such constantly flagellates the shallowness of his prose. This device allows Kertesz to find pockets of brevity in the serious material and shows the paradox of human suffering: we must know happiness to know sorrow. Another tactic used is the repetition of adjectives—not for lack of a thesaurus, but to stress the parallels: “A new day had just begun, just as superfluously as I myself was standing there superfluously in my nightdress.” The other is an unflagging use of irony: “The reason we are able to live here, the reason we have any dwelling at all, is because, luckily, the original owners were exterminated.” Perhaps this short novel does have to do with luck after all.

Writing a novel like this—an ouroboros of solipsism—can easily slip into rants, but Kertesz keeps the narrative steady and forceful, as if speaking from real need (which, so to speak, he is). Furthermore, his frequent conclusions (despite all that’s unsaid) at least give the illusion of progress (though it is clear no such ‘ending’ can ever be realized in life). “Only from our stories can we discover that our stories have come to an end, otherwise we would go on living as if there were still something for us to continue (our stories, for example); that is, we would go on living in error.”

My one regret is that the translation (or perhaps Kertesz himself) grows convoluted, sprouting incongruous sentences that break up the natural rhythms of the casual dialogue. For instance: “...in B.’s untidy yet for Kingbitter readily legible handwriting.” That’s just not a friendly phrase. Nor are the dense references to other fictions: “...like Lohengrin lying unawakened in Elsa.” I can see the point for it, and it doesn’t take too long to Google, but it makes Liquidation almost a bit too heady for its down-to-earth conclusion. A shame too, since Kertesz so simply puts Bee’s plight into words: a revolutionary must always be fighting for something, and so it figures that such a figure may eventually grow tired of “seeking new prisons.” So true: we live to find ways to keep ourselves occupied, tying ourselves to our work as if we might otherwise float away (which we, perhaps, might). This is certainly what happens to Kingbitter, who spends his days re-reading “Liquidation” (the past) and spending his present trying to find a mysterious novel that he is sure his dear friend must have left behind (the future). Kingbitter’s story is probably the most human, trapped as he is between two ever-changing moments, and his “unspeakable” affairs aren’t horrible, just horribly human.

That—life’s unfortunate truth—is something Kertesz never shies from, and his inescapable language draws the reader in: “Her face puffy, steeped to a red-raw sponge.” The one escape he offers is that of any novel: escapism. After all, “Man may live like a worm, but he writes like a God.” Auschwitz transmutes into a miracle (of birth), and then back into the tragedy of the son who cannot escape that original sin. “He did not understand my huge, unpardonable blunder of acting as if the world was not a world of murders, and of wishing to settle myself snugly down in it.” I think Bee understands too well; it is the ability to accept it that he lacks. That, perhaps, is tragedy enough.