The Telluride Film Festival is a cruel mistress, never more so than in a year that promised the usual also-rans and refuse from Venice and Toronto. Telluride prides itself on the world premieres that later achieve respectability and industry buzz (Juno and Slumdog Millionaire being most prominent), but more than ever, it’s just as content to slide through the uneventful and pretend you’re lucky to be paying for the privilege. I was not in a good mood as I drove into the always breathtaking little mountain town (this is my eighth festival, and the scenery never gets old), largely because the general state of cinema has pushed me to stay away from the theater more than ever. 2009 has been legitimately lethargic and mediocre, but I’ve become so jaded that my usual excitement about the exclusivity of an elite weekend turned to rage before I saddled up for my first queue.

Once again, limited funds ensured that, as an Acme pass holder, I would have to remain joined at the hip with the Chuck Jones Theater in Mountain Village (the best seats in town, but so detached from the action that it may as well be located in Denver), a reality that further limits my scheduling. As expected, the shows I wanted to see were either at ungodly hours (The White Ribbon, all 144 minutes of it, starts at 10:30pm?), or conflicted with other venues. And the TBA’s, usually a quirky element of the festival that allows for unpredictability and excitement, pissed me off to no end, as I couldn’t pull the trigger on Sunday without knowing what would play on Monday. And so on and so forth.

I know: Shut the fuck up, you bastard. You’re in Telluride, inhaling free beef jerky, breathing clean mountain air, and watching some of the best sunsets on the planet. But hey, I’m the kind of guy who still rails against nature for the brevity of the male orgasm, so there’s no pleasing me. Nevertheless, I offer no apologies for (along with my wife) being the most negative person in any given line. While everyone else gushed, swooned, and beamed, I harshed a hundred buzzes without pause. Telluride continually brings out my dark, unpleasant, inner contrarian, and it has become almost instinctual to piss on the festival parade. Still, how often can one endure unblinking love for the average and the merely decent? Telluride has a knack for bringing out the kind of filmgoers who put the last movie they saw at the top of their list of all-time favorites, and like flies to shit, we always seem to find the aging couple who hate “disturbing” and “depressing” as much as they love formulaic and phony.

More than ever, 2009’s edition has proven that my sedentary lifestyle is not all conducive to the frenetic pace of a festival. Unless the film plays at high fucking noon, I seem to stagger from screenings exhausted and bereft, uncertain whether I genuinely dislike the movie or simply remember little else but an initial frown. For now, I’ll assume my fatigue is indifference and a failure to meet my blue-ribbon standards, but there’s a cliché-in-waiting that just might apply: I’m too old for this shit. Then again, no fewer than three films featured central characters betrayed by lovers who harbored secret families (it’s the new pedophilia), and there are always those confounding short films to deal with. But for every Nic Cage railing at a Labor Day picnic about his “overacting,” there is a coveted sneak preview slot being taken by some Herzog rubbish that bored me to tears with a mere three sentence description. And how, in the same weekend, could I miss a gimme Oscar trivia question and miss running into Helen Mirren by mere seconds? Now she’ll never know how I really feel about her. And now, the films — some good, some bad, most down that damnable middle of the road.

Bad Lieutenant, Port of Call: New Orleans

Leave it to the irredeemably insane Werner Herzog to submit the most curiously delightful head-scratcher of the festival; a film so appallingly ridiculous on its face that it should come as no surprise that it survives its journey from madness to sublime entertainment fully intact. A crime drama with precious little of either, this in-name-only remake dispenses with the Catholic guilt of its predecessor and instead, embraces the reliably unhinged Nicolas Cage (proving that true genius lies in casting) as a figure of guiltless criminality. As Mr. Cage stated in the film’s post-screening Q&A, Herzog approached this glorious wreck not as a study in sin and redemption, but rather the “glory of evil,” where a man can — and perhaps, should — use his position of authority to satisfy the darker urges we all share. Cage also informed the crowd that, during a mid-shoot wrap party, Herzog insisted that he would never again make another movie unless “his iguanas” could remain on screen for a full five minutes, rather than the cutting room floor. Iguanas, you ask? Though best discovered on your own terms and in your own way, rest assured that said creatures not only get their very own lyrical interlude, but are closely photographed by Herzog himself, who can now lay claim to being the first filmmaker on record to score a POV shot from a lizard. There’s also an alligator, as if there were any doubt.

If it matters, and I can assure you that it does not, the plot (like a bad episode of Kojak with a bit of German engineering) involves brutal drug killings in the Crescent City, as well as a beleaguered police force that appears all-too-willing to take matters into its own hands. Xzibit is the kingpin in question, and he’s just the man you’d want to gun down an entire household in defense of his turf. He kills, but always with a smile. Cage, channeling Richard III by way of Richard Nixon, mumbles, limps, garbles, and twitches his way through a performance that is technically a character, though its claws simply reattach to a body of work that has yet to inhabit a universe with a molecule of subtlety or shading. Eyebrows fully arched and sweat dripping in epileptic frenzy, Cage’s bad cop interrogates, accuses, probes, bribes, and threatens, all in the ragged pursuit of the next high which, thankfully, is never more than fifteen seconds away. Cage smokes crack, snorts coke, dabbles in heroin, and pops any number of pills, though he’s so damned inviting that it’s less a cautionary tale than a masterpiece of comic invention. He even commands a top football recruit to shave a few points for a crucial bet. Not surprisingly, Cage’s mad stomp through this dirty, crime-ridden shithole leads him to a retirement home where, in the pursuit of a justice that long ago left the bayou, he deprives an uncooperative geezer of her oxygen in order to secure information. Needless to say, he’s also pointing a loaded gun at her caretaker’s head. Though both survive, he leaves the pair with hateful words so damned agreeable, they just might become a national motto.

Cage’s growling, and the nearly unbroken fit of hilarity that ensues, is matched scene-for-scene by Eva Mendes as a whore/girlfriend, Brad Dourif as a sleazy bookmaker, Val Kilmer as a puffy, amoral cop, and Jennifer Coolidge playing, well, the umpteenth ditzy scumbag in a career where sobriety and sanity long ago ceased being viable options. And make sure you stay tuned for a final act of such preposterous good fortune that it becomes impossible not to conclude that Herzog wants evil itself to triumph, or at least have bad behavior avoid the lash of moral judgment. Simply put, for all of his evidence tampering, theft, denial of civil rights, cruelty, and unlovable depravity, Cage’s bad lieutenant is a man of action; a force of the very nature Herzog worships with muscular abandon. All the better to be promoted for it. And when he stands tall, a captain in full measure, we remember that last, fatal bust where it all came together. “Shoot him again,” Cage instructs the drug lord regarding a slimy rival. “His soul is still dancing.” And just like that, as the bloody corpse receives yet another bullet, the departed one’s spirit rises forth, kicks into gear, and yes, dances before us. Breakdances, to be exact. And yet we never question the logic. Crap has rarely been so operatic.

Fish Tank

Andrea Arnold is a director at the top of her game. After the magnificent short film Wasp, which was soon followed by the gritty, uncompromising Red Road, she can now be compared to the best of Mike Leigh without apology or risk of overstatement. She’s the go-to filmmaker for the hopelessness of Britain’s still defiantly rigid class system; where a life in the projects guarantees little save the pain and misfortune similarly visited upon mom, dad, grandma, and every generation within earshot. Without sentimentality, false hope, or condescension, Arnold conveys a sense of doom without ever overplaying her hand. These are human beings, yes, and victims to a small degree, but whenever a moment of sympathy creeps in, a profound lack of common sense or poor life choice swings the pendulum back to disgust. Acutely observational in tone, the small community we witness is loud, nasty, and overcrowded, made worse by the vulgarity of the abbreviated educations on display.

Though largely plot-free, Fish Tank is, above all, the coming-of-age tale of 15-year-old Mia, though unlike nearly every effort in this overstuffed genre, no life lessons are learned, and what hope we find comes in the form of a failed audition for a strip club. Mia dreams of dancing her way out of her dreary existence, and though she has drive and desire, she lacks any visible talent. Much screen time is devoted to her routines, the painfully earnest exercises of youthful abandon, yet they are utterly dreadful from top to toe. Throughout this movie, I quietly cheered this brave directorial decision, as we’re usually expected to believe that our ghettos exist solely to hide reservoirs of untapped potential; unkempt saints denied their just due by the brutal indignities of short-sighted, bigoted gatekeepers. Mia, no plucky heroine, is a feisty, surly, foul-mouthed little bitch, and she’ll end up just like her bleached tramp of a mother, whatever her efforts.

Sure, there is young love, lust, and pained jealousy, but all evolve from the wellspring of authenticity, not detached idealism. Mia and her sister, for example, are about as close to real siblings we’re likely to see on film, and there isn’t a false note to be found in their caustic co-dependency. A new school beckons, but the film tempers its temporary optimism with a closing scene of quiet, depressing power. As the mother sadly gyrates to a driving beat while settling in for yet another booze-soaked, work-free day, both daughters join in her dance. What appears to be an atypical escape from failure and hardship is instead the ultimate representation of how generational pathology is passed along like a virus. I’ve always believed that the boy of ten is the man of forty, and here is no more striking example. These are fiercely unreflective people, “working” class in name only, who will die largely unchanged. And yet they keep trying; carving out small moments of fleeting pleasure that dissipate the precise moment they are acknowledged. It’s life as lived, without the Hollywood gloss.

Life During Wartime

Sadly, Todd Solondz has reached the end of the line. He’s out of gas, out of ideas, and so beyond even the minimal effort to surprise us that he’s revisiting old characters for no discernable reason save pure laziness. Using familiar names from both Welcome to the Dollhouse and Happiness, Solondz forgot to bring along the originality and sense of daring that so defined those previous efforts. Now, older and not at all wiser, he is a man cursing the darkness of his own creative bankruptcy. All told, Life During Wartime is a dull, pointless exercise in unmotivated action; where characters walk and talk not according to anything resembling reality, but rather the tired drive to shock the senses in a world that has moved beyond such puerile predictabilities. Far from a gifted voice of the cinema, Solondz now appears to be content as a fringe carnival barker; an irrelevant “auteur” masturbating to the sound of his own anonymity. His swift decline, via this atrocious spray of mist, was surely one of the most depressing realizations of an already dreary festival.

The pedophile dad from Happiness returns as a different actor (they’re all played by new faces, actually), only this time he hasn’t a thing to occupy his time. Even a hotel bar seduction with Charlotte Rampling, surely a scenario that oozes with dark comic possibility, is horribly wasted and awkwardly staged. The scene almost plays like lost footage from another movie. His ex-wife, Trish (Alison Janney), is trying to move on, but Solondz has found the least interesting manner possible of doing so. And Joy, the sad sack sister, is back and as pathetic as before, but now she’s resorting to imaginary conversations with a dead boyfriend, endless scenes that are overlong even when measured in mere seconds. Jokes are strained, story turns fall flat, and all that’s left is the arrogant assumption that we should care because we’ve heard these names before under far better circumstances. Though topical satire withers on the vine with cruel rapidity, such pointed commentary still would have been better than this toothless chamber of horrors that all but ignores the genuine madness happening right outside its cloistered walls.

A Prophet

After all these years, it’s good to see that penitentiaries remain dank laboratories of rape-fueled showers, random throat-slashings, and cigarette-heavy bribery for small favors. Pity, though, that the lesbian guards have the gone the way of the daring, midnight escapes via the laundry carts. All of these sigh-filled familiarities clog the arteries of A Prophet, a film that damn near stole away this past year’s Palme d’Or, despite often playing like a bad marriage between Midnight Express, American Me, The Shawshank Redemption, and any number of movies featuring Paul Muni. Though well-crafted and superbly acted, the film’s criminal over-length (150 minutes that passed like hours), combined with the moth-eaten story of a young innocent who learns the jailhouse ropes from a ruthless mentor, sentences the enterprise to the cure-for-insomnia bin. Stupidly, I endured this ass-numbing exercise first thing in the morning, which means my boredom was exceeded only by the drool that rolled in thick waves from my gaping maw. I’m not saying that the world didn’t need another reminder that prison is quite possibly the most dangerous place on planet earth, but surely the silver screen could have pounded home the same trite message in a quick flurry of images over a coffee break, rather than a large chunk of my very busy day. I had no idea the program’s description of “Kafkaesque” also applied to the audience.

Inside this particular French prison, there are the Corsicans, an aging, though still-powerful gang that clings to old traditions, such as tapping new recruits to gut stool pigeons like they’re being prepped for Thursday’s meatloaf. Malik, the wide-eyed innocent in question (so innocent that he’s received a lengthy prison sentence for, I’m assuming, failing to bring in his overdue library books), complies with this violent request, though only after much soul-searching. Unfortunately, it’s also a murder that saddles the poor boy with the victim’s yammering ghost for the better part of the picture. Competing with the Corsicans for control are the Arab gangs, equally ruthless upstarts who appear to have forgotten the chain of command that exists in such subcultures. It is here, with the inclusion of the Muslim population, where the film generates some much-needed heat, as Malik’s meteoric rise appears to mirror France’s own struggle with non-assimilating immigrants. Malik’s eventual triumph (and release) may in fact signal the director’s shrugging sense of resignation, but it could just as easily be a warning for a fractured nation on the edge of disaster. Regardless of the larger implications, there’s little here I haven’t seen before.

An Education

Audrey Hepburn’s Holly Golightly ruined the world in any number of ways, the most obvious being her malodorous life lessons for budding young women everywhere; primarily, that one can sip champagne, visit Paris, and navel gaze as a matter of course, rather than as temporary breaks in the tedium of living. There’s nothing that a good hat or fashionable pair of sunglasses can’t cure, and for Jenny (Carey Mulligan), they are both worth the trade for a top education at Oxford. Jenny is almost obscenely bright and clever for her age (I doubt America has ever had such girls about), and though it is 1961, she’ll be damned if antiquated ways are going to hold her back from a rich, fulfilling, independent life. She’s a top student, loves the written word, and has enough pluck for a dozen heroines; she’s more Portrait of the Idealist as a Young Woman than your average teenager. The world is for the taking, and ideas, purity, romance, and love are, expectedly, all that matter. Needless to say, she’s also an obnoxious little sot, and once she meets a much older, more sophisticated man, she’s more than willing to get married and become what she presumably hates.

Of course, the man (Peter Sarsgaard) is nothing like her father, which means he earns his bread through theft and chicanery instead of hard work, which can be more than justified by being in direct contrast to bourgeois boredom. As a couple, they travel, eat like kings, and exchange witty banter in hip jazz clubs, though it’s only a matter of time before the other shoe drops and Jenny is made the fool. She deserves the comeuppance, of course, and I cheered her cruel dismissal as she attempted to crawl back into the good graces of those she so casually cast aside during her wild ride of good fortune. Unfortunately, the movie (based on one of those ubiquitous memoirs that may or may not contain an ounce of truth) rewards her in the end for her foul deeds, when we all know that such women usually live out the nightmare of their own creation, regretting their naiveté until the grave beckons. In the end, I never believed Jenny’s affectations were anything other than a means by which to set herself apart from her parents; mere pretensions to garner the attention she so desperately craved. Like so many smart girls, she’s all-too-willing to put away her books for the first gent to take her dancing.

Make Way for Tomorrow

It seems fitting that the best film playing in Telluride over the Labor Day weekend would be from 1937, rather than the gray, depressing present. Even better, it’s currently unavailable on home video in any format, making the screening an exclusive, must-see event. Adding to the charm is the fact that the film is from Alexander Payne’s private stash; a surprisingly undamaged print he acquired from eBay for the princely sum of six dollars. That aside, the movie just happens to be an unsung classic, the sort of film that can hold court with the best of Ozu in terms of emotional heft and depth of humanity. Appropriately, this film inspired nothing less than Tokyo Story, and it does not suffer for the comparison. Orson Welles once said of Make Way for Tomorrow that “it would make a stone cry,” and the results demonstrate his lack of exaggeration. It’s about acceptance and loss, aging and death, but at its core, it begs for living life beyond one’s role as a parent. Though likely unintended, this is the best argument yet for staying the hell away from cribs and diapers and taking a vacation instead. At the very least, don’t wait fifty years to revisit old memories.

Leo McCarey’s direction is as surefooted as ever, and the performances — especially those of the unwanted, burdensome parents (played flawlessly by Victor Moore and Beulah Bondi) — are surprisingly nuanced for the time, and the authenticity is secured right down to the final scene, which avoids the expected turn for the better. In fact, the final images at the train station are shattering, if only because they so violate the norms of American cinema, then and now. Movies are usually about hope and opportunity, or the next best thing around the corner, so imagine the shock at finding one over 70 years old that provides no comfort, and offers no quarter. Yes, the children are nasty and selfish, but what they decide is far from unreasonable. Life should go on, and each generation must surely pass the torch. And of course, the parents are irritating and frustrating, but do they not deserve honesty and respect, or at least a quiet, dignified end for lives well-lived? Thankfully, the film never offers answers or asks for clear lines between heroes and villains, nor does it wallow in cheap sentiment. There is humor and charm to spare, and a warmth not from decency winning out over evil, but that of a job well done.

London River

No film about terrorism in the modern age has any right to succeed, if only because the political undertones are bound to be oversimplified and shouted at the top of their lungs. Thankfully, we have London River, a quiet, understated film that avoids politics altogether and instead focuses on loss at the personal level. If I were to tell you that the two characters at the center of the movie were a vaguely bigoted widow from Guernsey (Brenda Blethyn), and a solemn, rail-thin African Muslim from Paris (Sotigui Kouyate), you could practically submit your own appalled objection. Do they break down racial and ethnic barriers and share a hug for all mankind? Do they screech and pontificate and see the error of their ways? Not really is the best I can offer, but rest assured that sentiment remains far in the distance this time around, and though these two parents, both of whom are searching for their missing children in the wake of the July 2005 London bombings, do approach a tentative, uncertain bond, they are more opportunists in need of temporary crutches for their grief.

More than a story of tragedy and desperation, however, is the fact that in their own way, both the mother and the father in turn have never really known their children. The realization that each will never see their kids again is painful in any context, but more so because no opportunities will ever again exist for bridging the divide. Sure, it seems cutesy and convenient that the two kids were involved with each other, killed on the same bus because they were taking a trip to France, but from scattered clues, it seems quite possible that the privileged white girl was having that obligatory affair with a minority group to, in whatever manner left to her, strike back at her mother. Even the girl’s flirtation with Arabic lessons and the like demonstrates that irritating youthful indulgence with the Other that is bound to fade with adult responsibility and the crush of the real world. Mom may one day come to see that herself, once the shock of loss yields to numbing routine. Still, any film that tackles something so topical without speechifying must receive something slightly more than a muted endorsement.

Vincere

Here, at last, is the story of Ida Dalser, a young Italian woman who claimed to have had Mussolini’s son before his ignoble rise to power, only to be declared insane, sent to a mental hospital, and thrown in a pauper’s grave upon expiration. I say “at last” in jest, of course, because there’s no way in hell this is coming to a theater near you, though such news is, as you would expect, not even remotely tragic. Even if true, I’m not sure we can blame Il Duce for denying the marriage and birth, largely because running a chaotic empire in the midst of depression and war seems a tad more important than the self-involved ravings of a woman scorned. Think about it: a man like Mussolini obviously has the drive and ambition of a hundred men, and with that comes an unquenchable passion. I hate to tell you, lady, but Benito likely has dozens of children cluttering up Italy, and I’m not sure it’s in the nation’s interest to have them all move into the presidential palace. You were once a great love, but he’s, like, dictator now, so admit your lies and put the brutal nuns of institutional life behind you.

Despite some truly gorgeous cinematography and gripping sequences, the whole adds up to very little, as Mussolini disappears completely after an hour, so that the woman’s tale can receive full focus. We see Il Duce through newsreels and the like, which is unfortunate, as it’s his story that holds all the interest. His rise to power, as expected, is oversimplified to the point of high comedy, as one day he’s standing naked on a hotel balcony as the dark streets fill with noise, while the next he’s in the charge of the whole damn enterprise. Bizarre on-screen words and an overbearing musical score don’t help, and the story seems to turn on granting this woman a sympathy she may not have earned. Were mental institutions a means by which to control outspoken, independent women? Most assuredly, but they also housed the genuinely insane, and Ida just might have been yet another starstruck groupie who attached herself to a rising star because her own was fading in the mist. In any case, a long and routine effort that may occupy an evening, but won’t register beyond its one and only viewing.

The White Ribbon

Michael Haneke’s film was the most anticipated of the festival, which only goes to show that outsized expectations are the greatest curse to befall a moviegoer. While a good film overall, and one that features a host of spectacular scenes, it fell short of the anticipated masterpiece, so the tears I cry are for the failure of initial impression. I fully expect to revisit the movie, if only to flesh out a more considered opinion, but at first blush, the lush black and white cinematography and somber tone, while creepily effective, supported a meandering pace that often frustrated, rather than yielding to rapture. Haneke respects the audience enough to avoid capital letters and bold underlines, but the crippling over length and shifting perspectives helped maintain an unfortunate level of detachment. Dry and muted are usually preferred, but they can become dull if one isn’t careful. That said, it’s always appreciated to have a movie about Germany before the Nazis, and even in advance of World War I, if only to remind viewers that savagery was not always expressed, and once needed a suitable environment in which to grow.

Perhaps Haneke’s conceit — that the Germany of 1913 can be mined for “signs” of impending doom — is best enjoyed at the theoretical level, and that as discussed in story form, the results could only hope to be mixed. After all, a weak screenplay would be far too obvious with the horrors to come, forcing slow-witted viewers to point out the heavy-handed imagery. So, thankfully, there are no Hitler stand-ins, nor are there metaphorical gas chambers, and the lurking anti-Semitism is even pushed aside for more subtle investigations of rural German culture. The farming village in question is quiet and seemingly gentle, but bizarre acts of violence suddenly break out without explanation, forcing villagers to confront their own natures. Only they do little self-examination, and the crimes go wonderfully unsolved. Are these acts of cruelty from without? Within? Perhaps supernatural? Though the children — the generation that would sweep the Nazi regime to power with little objection — are the likely culprit, it’s best that we learn very little regarding victims and perpetrators.

The “white ribbon” of the title refers to a reminder a moderately cruel father (and pastor) ties to the arms of his children concerning their responsibilities as “the innocent.” Behavior, then, follows not as an instinctive drive for goodness, but rather an arbitrary symbol of the punishment to follow if certain rules and regulations are violated. Haneke is surely not suggesting that the German children who were treated poorly readily embraced global war and the Holocaust as natural responses to punishment, so I must conclude that he is instead suggesting that in the absence of genuine, unprompted morality, murder and totalitarianism will follow. But as this is hardly unique to the soil of pre-war Germany, it seems a rather dubious conclusion. Perhaps it’s best to approach The White Ribbon as a cautionary tale; not necessarily that there are handy road maps for evil, but rather that the more bucolic the setting, the more seemingly tranquil the populace, the more receptive such minds are for the ever-feeding forces of self-destruction.

Up in the Air

There’s a certain satisfaction that comes from being the first audience on the entire planet to see a movie, but it inevitably means far less when we’re talking about a Jason Reitman production. After all, this is the same man who set Juno loose upon an unsuspecting world, though my negative review appears to be one of only a handful to be found. Telluride’s faithful are especially enamored with it, and if any one statement dominated the endless queues of the weekend’s events, it was, “I liked it, but it was no Juno.” You are correct, madam or sir, and that’s about the best bit of news concerning this decidedly commercial enterprise. Up in the Air is, at bottom, a creature of mainstream moviemaking, and while limiting in terms of payoff, I’m here to say that it’s not all bad. In fact, I pretty much enjoyed the thing, much to my surprise. Of course, as I expected to loathe its very existence, modest entertainment was more than I had any right to expect. George Clooney tones down the smugness for once, and is all the better for it, and the story, while too redemptive by half, manages to traffic in adult situations and topical relevance with precious little by way of, well, preciousness. Reitman would do right to stay away from Diablo Cody from here on out.

Clooney portrays Ryan Bingham, a corporate hatchet man of more recent vintage; the anti-headhunter who visits downsizing companies across the country to lay off the unsuspecting with what he believes is tact and sympathy. Essentially, he stands in for gutless managers and CEOs who can’t do their own dirty work. The visits are scripted down to the letter, and are so sterile (they involve handbooks on coping with the post-layoff depression, for god’s sake) that they practically run themselves. But Clooney is proud of his work, as he provides a human face to a very inhuman moment in the lives of so many. Along with that central thrust are two side stories: Clooney’s relentless pursuit of his ten-millionth frequent flier mile, and the introduction of a corporate upstart who threatens to take the business into a new age of “video conferencing,” which pretty much entails eliminating all the travel to fire people via the internet. With that, the story is off and running, though it won’t be inviting comparisons with Bergman anytime soon.

We also know that Clooney’s “go it alone” philosophy will be challenged by a fellow traveler who becomes more than a port in the storm, and that her “real life” will present new obstacles, etc. Also, no prizes for guessing that his motivational speeches, used primarily to supplement his income (as well as provide an excuse to keep him on the road even more), will be thrown into disarray by this unexpected attachment, and if you were to assume that a third-act seminar will be interrupted by the standard “moment of clarity” (which by necessity must include leaving the podium and making a mad dash to the airport), you would not be going out too far on the proverbial limb. Again, all pretty much by the book. But it’s well-made, engaging, and for once, despite some definite compromises, the lead character stays nestled in his self-imposed cocoon during the closing credits. Sure, he craves connection, but he’s not really cut out for the daily grind of holding down the homefront. A small victory, perhaps, but enough to warrant a recommendation.

A moderate sized but respectable film festival, the WFF has grown each year to its current crop of 198 films from local and international filmmakers. The crowd is cosmopolitan, and you will as likely share your theatre row with suits as bums, with people on one hand arriving from a wine tasting party while the next cinephile will be spilling liquor from his brown bag all over his beard before passing out on your lap. Above all the people are almost disconcertingly friendly, and you will have your ears chatted off by what amounts to a mobile city made of amateur critics. At least there is little apathy, as people really put some effort into this increasingly popular event – this year attendance reached 32,000, and nearly every showing was close to sold out. There are some significant gripes, namely that the feather in the festival cap this year was the world premiere of 500 Days of Summer, described as an “avalanche of whimsy” and starring Zooey Deschanel. The audience award went to Being Bucky, the inspiring story of what it is like to be the Wisconsin Badger mascot, and how it, and I quote, “changes you forever”. So yeah, there is a lot to be desired. Still, the selection was wide, and was filled with a fuckton of foreign language films that would never make it this far from either coast otherwise. Also reviewed from the festival were Goodbye Solo, Tokyo Sonata, and the fiery, fucked-up Food, Inc.

24 City

Massive munitions plant 420 is being demolished to make room for the luxury apartment complex of 24 City, to the detriment of the thousands of Chinese workers who were displaced to work on the original project. 24 City is an attempt to weave documentary and narrative styles in order to tell this story, using some of the individuals from plant 420 and actors telling their stories. Though the mutation from communism to capitalism can make for an engaging story, this is such a dull and lifeless film that I cannot believe there was a director on set during the entire enterprise. Use of fact and fiction can be a dangerous mélange, as a potentially tragic or moving tale can be easily jettisoned by the viewer if shenanigans are called.

In 24 City, just such a moment happens when one woman tearfully recalls being forced to leave one of her daughters behind when a day of work finished and the entire work force was to board a ferry and depart; the following scene has Joan Chen discussing her days working in the factory, and that she was called ‘Flower Girl’ for her striking resemblance to Joan Chen. Oh how very very and too too. Even if the majority of the stories were not meandering, tangential, and deadly dull, I have a severe allergy to this sort of bullshit.

To say the pace is glacial is an insult to glaciers, which in comparison tear across the landscape like majestic wildebeest. Which are running from cheetahs. That are on fire. There is a poem written by an author from plant 420 that goes thusly:

“If the aeronautics factory is like a huge eyeball, then the labor is its pupil.”

Either this is from an actual poet, which is pathetic, or was carefully written expressly for this feature, which is hilarious. What a worthless experience, ameliorated only by a 15 minute nap and the sight of at least thirty people walking out mid-film. Shortlist it for whatever ‘worst of the year’ list you have in progress.

Beaches of Agnes

The French New Wave directors created a wildly diverse body of work, but they had in common a fierce intellect and a desire to reinvent cinema as consummate artists and auteurs. Of these, Agnes Varda was probably the least predictable and most esoteric, creating works as disparate as Vagabond, Cleo from 5 to 7, and The Gleaners and I. As a relentlessly fascinating figure, she makes an equally fascinating subject for a documentary, in the autobiographical Beaches of Agnes. Though she would loathe the comparison, I found myself thinking of the insufferably obnoxious pixie known as Miranda July. As Agnes Varda creates various forms of art including beautifully composed photography (she originally trained as a photographer), mirror arrangements on the beach, and a thoughtful shed made of clipped celluloid from a unremembered cinematic flop, I thought to myself, “This is what artists are capable of when there is a true vision at work.” As opposed to the forced whimsy shit slurry that was Me and You and Everyone We Know. Watching that film, painful though it was, was useful for witnessing how attempting art without having any sort of talent can go horribly wrong.

Varda is first seen walking along the beach, aged 80 going on 25, narrating “If we opened me up, there would be beaches”, as she carefully arranges mirrors on the edge of the surf, creating images whereby the ocean approaches from many different directions. Somehow, this is all you really need to know about her as a visionary director as well as a prescient human being. You can intuit the rest. She had no formal training in filmmaking, noting “I thought if I added sound to photographs, that would be cinema.” And so she just made it up as she went.

This film strains the definition of documentary, as facts and emotions blur past the camera – Varda is no stranger to artifice, and uses it joyfully as another actress plays her, speaking to the camera. A close friend refused to appear in this film, and so she uses a cardboard cat, his voice altered to hilarious effect. She shows her work space, in an alley between the houses owned by her and Jacques Demy, demonstrating with a prop car how many times she must back up and go forward to pull into her garage. Frequently she walks backwards, as do other actors, signifying reflection without nostalgia. Sets depicting times past are recreated in the most artificial fashion possible, including a flasher who prowled near her school (sporting a foot long pink dildo under his coat). She is a compulsive artist that lacks pretension, creating a giant fabric whale with a colorful tea room in the belly, or opening a photographic exposition of potatoes and advertising the showing by traipsing down the sidewalk in a potato outfit. At no time does she appear to be concerned about whether she is being, like, totally deep. She just expresses in ways that feel right and unforced. The film as a result is not only effortlessly charming, but genuinely funny.

She reviews some of her films, including La Pointe Courte, her first film, and arguably the antecedent salvo of the New Wave. Combining two unrelated narratives, she used the people who lived in the neighborhood as actors. In Beaches of Agnes, she returns to the quay where much of the filming occurred, and those actors were still there, carrying out their daily rhythms. Much of the film is absorbed in these rhythms, and this energetic director appears to have both hands firmly on the pulse. Study at the Louvre, running away to Marseille to mend fishing nets and figure out what life is all about. Varda finds work touching up paintings, though she prefers them in disrepair, referring to the ‘tyranny of the sharp image’. Meeting Jacques Demy just before they embark on a career of filmmaking, and trying to understand the love of her life. Photographic journeys to China and Cuba, including a brilliant image where she has captured Fidel Castro in front of a religious statue: “A tall utopist with stone wings.”

The film is a free flowing essay about the life of Agnes Varda, a poem without rhyme or meter, nor underlying purpose, other than an expression of life. At least the way she sees life. As she gets older, she expresses the regret that memory begins to fade, and our recollections fall to dust as do our bodies. “Our memory ultimately fails. But it is still ours, and nobody knows us.” She recalls shooting a documentary about Demy, as he lay dying, collecting his thoughts and memories. Varda is always collecting, with the admission that she cannot understand the people in her life, but true understanding is overrated.

And so she walks backwards towards the waves on the beach, looking back upon a life resplendent with friends, family, and artistic accomplishments that have a great deal to say about life and humanity, and the difficult terms by which we understand them. In a way, walking backward is the only sensible way to view one’s life, as anything forward is but a blind step into the darkness. Looking back is all we really have, our own experiences in this limited time on earth. “While I live… I remember.”

Betrayal

A film 23 years in the making, Betrayal is an exhaustive, yet cold and distant, documentary about one family’s struggles from war-torn Laos to a crack house in New York City. The patriarch is trained with the Royal Laotian Guards as a ground coordinator for airborne assaults, and fought on behalf of the King, who was allied with the United States during the Vietnam War. Though they fought bravely in what was essentially an undeclared war, the United States disavowed any involvement when they withdrew their military support from Vietnam and paramilitary support from Laos and Cambodia. As expected, the Pathet Lao began arresting members of the Royal Lao Army and interning them into ‘reeducation camps’, while steadily harassing and occasionally executing their family members in the new Lao Peoples Democratic Republic. They accused the soldiers of fighting with colonialists, and since the French set up the Royal Lao Army in the first place, they do have a point. Still, they really never knew what hit them, and saw the American withdrawal as a betrayal, and this would be the first of many.

The family is left with little choice but escape, as they were regarded with suspicion by their neighbors, contempt by the government, and as target practice by the People’s Army. They escape in the night via Thailand into refugee camps, and from there make their way to the United States, and to the quaint hamlet of the south Bronx. The family goes from constant harassment by armed soldiers to constant harassment by armed gangs and drug dealers. Their cultural isolation compounds their fears, and the family falls to pieces as traditions give way to integration in the worst possible way. Namely, the children of the family find gangs or drugs and become lost in the urban jungle. In this way, the family betrays itself and its history. There are other betrayals, one notably by a family member who loses his way.

The storytelling and cinematography is dry and matter-of-fact, and you may find the film interesting in how a family fundamentally changes over time and in response to tragedy. The mother’s attempts and ultimate failure to keep her family intact as they survive in a hostile environment are moving, and their final move to rediscover their roots says a great deal about the potential advantages that tradition and culture can offer. Their story is not necessarily a unique one, as there have been numerous tales of immigrants who disembarked to find a war waiting for them in the streets of America. Still, it is engaging enough to watch a family do their best under difficult circumstances without really knowing if there was any point to sticking together, or what future there was to struggle for.

Jerichow

Film noir remains a strangely bottomless well, perhaps due to the universality of its themes of weakness and temptation, and the inevitable similarity between the doomed protagonists and the viewer. Since its glorious birth with the likes of Double Indemnity, the same story has been told time and again, and that story just does not tire. In Jerichow, the story has been set in rural Germany, with Thomas, a dangerous and broke ex-military man, Ali, a fat and wealthy Turkish kiosk owner, and his wife Laura. Laura was a waitress with thousands in debt and a prison history until Ali rescued her and made her a kept woman. He drinks too much, is deeply jealous, and almost hopes his wife is cheating on him so as to justify his occasional beatings. Thomas is a thug whose stoic appearance belies a central weakness that feeds into his simplistic sense of justice. The couple hires him as a driver after Ali is caught driving drunk, and he becomes a trusted friend, if indeed trust exists in such films. Ali is a tool, but he is no villain, being the only person capable of a steady income and willing to help others if they require it. He does exact a price, but mostly due to his inability to understand any relationship that does not involve money. For example, after spying on his wife, he ambushes her and accuses her of cheating on him; he does not understand her secretiveness until she reveals that she has been stealing from him in order to pay her debts. Unlike her inexplicable sexuality, this he understands.

Thomas is a fairly simple and straightforward character, and so the viewer can project themselves into his shoes with ease. Laura is more of a cipher, a fountain of knowing looks and nuanced gesture. She tells Thomas of her money issues, how trapped she is in this marriage of convenience and the impossibility of divorce given her prenup. Nina Hoss plays Laura as a bit sharper than her appearance, as if she knows just how much information Thomas needs to make a rash decision.

Thomas provides Laura with a way out of this situation, and so the story evolves its flawed protagonist and femme fatale, the plot having been in motion without self-awareness. The acting is solid, and the story is engaging; above all noir is a study in human behavior, and in this respect Jerichow excels.

Of Time and the City

Essentially a retrospective using voice over narration and old footage from a bygone era, Terence Davies’ feature considers his home town of Liverpool and the joy of bleak nostalgia. Quoting poetry and displaying sardonic wit, the town of his youth was a source of strength and confusion as he grappled with the muddled teachings of the church and his own homosexuality. Liverpool arose as a manufacturing giant, the narrator’s Ozymandias, before the nation was plunged into poverty by the strain of the Second World War.

The time line is fractured, and historical fact has little value here. This is an emotional recollection, and the tone is bittersweet as the footage displays vast arrays of abandoned apartment blocks and signs of deep urban decay. Though this sounds absorbing, at 85 minutes the film drags and wears out its welcome after its thousandth tangentially-related quote. Normally I give this sort of thing the benefit of the doubt, as natives of Liverpool will be more likely to resonate with this subject. After a while, however, Davies takes up some navel-gazing as he wonders “Where is the Liverpool I knew and loved?” Well, considering that the empty shacks made excellent crack houses, I would imagine that urban renewal was an alluring item on the menu. Change is not an absolute good, as nothing complex can be. Stasis, however, is an absolute evil, as nothing contributes more to irreparable destruction than decay.

Revanche

Crime dramas tend to romanticize life in the underground by depicting danger as thrilling and individuals as fast living and sexy rather than run down and burned out. Despite immaculate camerawork, the Vienna of Revanche is revealed as a chaotic machine that grinds down its inhabitants, none more so than the workers in a brothel. Tamara is a Ukrainian immigrant who gets by however she can, which usually involves being on her knees. Her boyfriend is Alex, a none-too-clever hired meathead who works at the brothel, and he offers to rescue her and go on the run for a better life. A bank robbery is planned and poorly executed, and disaster befalls a character as the film threatens to become a revenge thriller. This all sounds familiar, but the story is pumping with a new life, as if director Gotz Spielmann believed he invented the concept of revenge. From the loud and dangerous city, Revanche moves to the deceptively quiet countryside where Alex finds himself surrounded by people who – in his mind – destroyed his life. That the spare soundtrack is filled with aching quiet only drives the wonder of just what will explode next.

There is no point in revealing further plot details since any description will sound fairly derivative and dull. There is only blind hatred and the desire for reprisal that becomes sidetracked into uncharted territory. In the meantime, Alex chops wood in seething fashion, each pound of the axe striking an ominous chord.

If you are looking for a ‘point’, then this film is bound to disappoint you. This is one to become lost within, perhaps considering the course of events as a morality tale where concepts as fragile as human morality and dignity are loose objects quickly thrown from a vehicle lurching perilously off course. It is quite well done, and I enjoyed the hell out of it, though I am unable to describe why. Those are the films that stay with you – those that evade an easy characterization.

Silent Light

One of the most beautiful opening shots I have ever seen occurs in Silent Light; clouds and stars, slowly, almost subliminally yielding to a otherworldly sunrise. This sets the meditative quality of this quiet and introspective film. This is the first, and likely the last film to capture the Mennonite community of rural Mexico in the obscure language of Plautdietsch. This wholly novel subject grabbed me, and the hypnotic style kept me riveted; the film unspools carefully, taking its time, while wasting no time. Despite these strengths, all does not go well in the telling, and I was left with the question of whether the journey was worth the effort.

The story focuses on a family, and more precisely upon a love triangle. Johan loves his wife Esther, but is uncontrollably drawn to Marianne; in his mind, his marriage was a mistake, as he feels that he belongs with Marianne. The austere ambiance unconsciously allows us to feel how one can come to this conclusion without considering the pitfalls of declaring one’s love for a mistress. Insane though it is, Johan only considers what feels correct, though he does not understand what to do with his wife. A friend advises him, “A brave man makes his destiny with what he’s got”, implying that fate is an illusion, as is the love that burns brightly one moment, only to wink out in the next. These people are deeply religious, and so Johan feels that this obsessive love for Marianne is God’s work – why should he argue? His father gives sober advice, noting that he was in his son’s shoes once, and he found that position worthy of both envy and scorn. Envy for the newness of another love, and the potential and danger inherent in an affair; scorn for that same danger and understanding that newness fades quickly to be replaced by comfortable contempt. He knew the excitement was in him only, and so he remained with his wife. “If you do not act quickly, you will lose them both.” Indeed.

After a time, it becomes clear that Johan is a dreamer, and has very little consideration for anyone who isn’t Johan. He confesses to Esther that he sleeps with Marianne, then continues to see her, justifying it as the will of God. The kids become an annoyance for him, even as Esther demands that the kids accompany him to his trips to see his mistress. The heart wants what it wants, but that is when the head is supposed to exact some control. Johan fails to decide, with disastrous consequences for his family. There is no reason to be surprised that such a quiet individual could be such a narcissist, but anyone who believes that God talks to them personally will probably end up one eventually.

Love triangles are most often told as a love denied, and a desire kept secret. There is good reason for this, as such feelings are most often infatuation, and such emotions pass quickly enough that the practical roadblocks to outright overtures render them prohibitive. Silent Light interestingly bypasses such pragmatism as Johan has already informed his wife that he is stabbing a little something on the side, and that he is very much in love with that something. It is not made clear why this Mennonite community was chosen for a story that could occur anywhere, and filmed in an ancient language. Perhaps the devout nature of these people makes such open and impractical honesty possible. It is an interesting exploration of what happens in such a love triangle when each point is aware of the others.

The film takes a nosedive in the final act with a twist that at first holds Johan accountable for his imprudent failure to take a stand, then appears to exonerate everyone involved. It is difficult to elaborate without giving away the ending, so I will: Esther dies of a heart attack, or rather a broken heart. Whether by God’s will or Johan’s stupidity, she cannot take this farce any further and dies in the rain. Johan is preparing to bury his wife, still one of the loves of his life, when Marianne shows up to the funeral. While she holds Esther’s hand, Esther awakens, and thanks Marianne for her kindness. Now this may be a meditation on destiny, or the moment where the two loves of Johan’s life become one, there are other possible interpretations. I like to think that Johan is dreaming of Esther’s resurrection so he evades culpability, or dreaming that Esther forgave his idiocy. The quiet pallor upon the proceedings was dashed in any case, and the tragic outcome of Johan’s inadequacy at creating his own destiny morphed into his destiny being handed to him. If that was the point, then the conclusion is a mess, and betrays the spartan style of the film. I suspect there was a desire to have a happy ending, as otherwise the somber tone would become overwhelming. If that is the case, then so be it – allow the film to breathe its own life, rather then injecting artifice where it does not belong. Ah, it was a truly breathtaking opening shot, though.

2008 Denver International Film Festival

After watching the infuriating Witch Hunt, my immediate attention turned to finding someone to blame. Perhaps kill. Bakersfield, California, circa 1984, was the ultimate hellhole (more so than usual). During a frenzied few months, otherwise exemplary citizens were plucked from their homes, accused of child molestation, put on trial, and, based on the coerced testimony of impressionable children, convicted and sentenced to life in prison. Hundreds of counts, hundreds of years, and no chance for parole. It shouldn’t surprise a soul that to a man (and woman), they were all innocent, set free only after years of hard work by humanitarian groups and yes, documentary filmmakers. The film takes us to the beginning, when a custody battle produced the first accusation, which, like wildfire, spread quickly, choked the life from a town, and set neighbor against neighbor. The charges were beyond the pale – ritualized torture, vicious beatings, repeated rape – yet all of it was based on the stuttering, half-hearted words of a few kids. No medical evidence, no adult corroboration, and no documentation. Even the child pornography charges stuck, despite not a single picture being placed into evidence. Prosecutors found nothing. But kids don’t lie, now do they?

The most obvious villain in all this is the Kern County District Attorney, one Edward R. Jagels. Remember that name, because the cocksucker is still in office, re-elected repeatedly by a community that doesn’t seem to mind incompetence and corruption. First put into power on a typical Reagan era platform of “no nonsense” law enforcement, the end result was exactly as one would expect: round ‘em up justice that concerned itself with numbers and headlines, not actual guilt or innocence. Add to that the decade’s fanaticism regarding child abuse, which stemmed from actual cases, yes, but also a right-wing need to punish working women. One need only survey the damage to child care centers throughout the country (and in California, most appallingly) to see this proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. Women were leaving the home to earn a living, much to the dismay of Lord Ron and his ovary-hating minions, and the very places where they dropped their brood needed to become dens of iniquity in order to shame mothers everywhere back to their proper roles. Why else attack day care? And why the fuck does Satan seem to be lurking in the background during all this?

It was never enough to accuse these people of raping children; there had be animal sacrifices, bloodletting, and orgasmic cries to demonic forces to make the story complete. Again, maybe DA Jagels looked too deeply into an AC/DC record, or ministers spent too much time at the right hand of government, but these hellish connections seemed to spring from the wild blue yonder. Once again (there’s a theme here), no evidence was ever found, but the belief was enough, and no one with children appeared to be safe. And god forbid you had a backyard pool, or a basement, or were seen talking to youngsters in the street. It was mass madness, and the do-gooders did everything to make Jagels’ job that much easier. Yes, I’m speaking of the social workers. Perhaps the world’s worst slice of humanity, these poorly trained, idealistic authoritarians-in-waiting created fictions to feed to children and communities alike. And if you refused to admit being fucked by Mr. Smith down the street, you were in denial and in need of treatment. The denial, in fact, was the surest sign that you had been fucked. And like all social workers, they harmed the innocent and looked away from real wrongdoing. That their trade springs from sociology is no surprise. If only their damage was limited to the university.

We hear many horrifying stories — Scott Kniffen (12 years served), Jeff Modahl (15 years served), John Stoll (20 years served), Marcella Pitts (6 years served) – all of which made me want to gouge out my own eyes in frustration. The trials were preposterous on their face, and should scare the hell out of anyone who thinks the state actually has to prove its case to send you away. At bottom, though, this is a testament to the evils of romanticizing childhood. By failing to recognize that kids are capable of deceit, adult lives were ruined forever. By all accounts, these kids simply caved to authority figures in order to get some ice cream, but never again should we assume that the mouths of babes are sacred. More than that, any case that relies on witnesses alone should not produce a conviction. Didn’t someone, somewhere wonder why little Tommy’s ass was in tip-top shape, even after being repeatedly sodomized by mask-wearing adults?  Where were the bruises? The welts? The sure-fire trauma that would result from having hot wax dripped on your hairless genitalia? Despite the eventual release of these folks, a sadness still remains. How long until it happens again? It’s not an “if”, but a steadfast, depressing “when”.

2008 Denver International Film Festival

A man’s true character is revealed not by how he makes a living, his outward appearance, or even the company he keeps, but rather the nature of his obsessions. The origins of these fanatical pursuits and preoccupations are often shrouded in mystery, and the diversity of passionate interest as widespread as the shock we feel whenever we encounter unparalleled devotion. Some we understand (and expect) — sports, gambling, religion — and each in its own way has been sanctioned by the dominant culture. One may step over the line again and again, but no one’s ever really going to punish the man who lives his life for a decidedly mainstream desire. Friends and comrades are always around the corner. But what of the truly bizarre? The abnormal or the fringe? And what if the obsession itself becomes indistinguishable from the man? For Dallas and Wayne, two aging maniacs from Portsmouth, Ohio, one of those increasingly familiar Midwestern towns without any visible means of support, days and nights begin and end in search of the elusive Bigfoot, the ape-like creature that has haunted the imaginations of hill folk for generations. To call these men true believers is an understatement, and yet again, the documentary form has highlighted the infectious insanity of the American way. We’re fucked, but we’re fun.

Jay Delaney’s Not Your Typical Bigfoot Movie is the aptly named study of the pair, for at no time does the film become a tired cultural analysis of the Bigfoot phenomenon. No scholars are consulted, no historians remain at the ready, and no unseen narrator provides an unsolicited take on the truth or fiction of the Sasquatch myth. Thankfully, this is simply an unvarnished look at two American originals and the pursuit that defines their lives. It’s enough that it’s real to them. Sentiment aside, though, there are laughs to be had, and yes, most are at their expense. And why not? Dallas, for one, a toothless old coot suffering from emphysema, says, without a trace of sarcasm, “I’ve had four different doctors tell me I have sheep DNA.” He’s even more serious about his spiritual “gifts,” which amount to shouting-in-tongues to attract the creatures, as well as unproven healing powers. “Feel better?”, he asks Wayne after a particularly intense round of mumbo-jumbo. That Wayne answers in the negative means little; Dallas is a god among men, or at least the men he chooses to surround himself with. One is his son, a seemingly level-headed young man who accompanies pops to a Bigfoot convention, which is nothing more than a packed-to-the-gills cabin containing more diabetics per square inch than any place not Mississippi. It stands to reason that sonny boy believes the Yeti race has acquired powers of levitation.

The film, far too short for the riches it unearths (just over an hour), contains a controversy of sorts; one that threatens to tear apart the friendship Wayne and Dallas share. You see, Wayne is a comically stupid man (he blasts Republicans, only to follow with how much he hates liberals), though one saved by a self-esteem so poor that he admits repeatedly that he’s a complete failure. Wayne cries, mumbles, threatens suicide, and speaks to a series of half-starts and dead-ends so pathetic as to achieve a reluctant grandeur. Wayne done fucked up on a radio program one day, and his contradictory, confused statements caused Dallas’ Bigfoot website to be classified as a fraud. I know, it was before and will always remain such, but no one had said so out loud, and now the magic was gone. Wayne got all twisted around about a picture he took that appeared to reveal the woodland beast at last, though close scrutiny seems to show a drunk wearing a flannel shirt. It’s far too blurry to tell, but for Wayne, it had been the equivalent of holding the keys to the kingdom. He had respect, a devoted partner, and, from his perspective, a fawning (and paying) public but a short ride away. And in an instant, he threw it all to the dogs. Needless to say, Wayne beats himself up over the humiliating interview, which leads to a painful phone call with Dallas to set things right. It’s touching in its own trashy, ridiculous way, and striking proof that even the most brain-fried among us need a shoulder to lean on. And something to believe in.

Again, this isn’t necessarily an insight into a subculture, and there are far more questions asked than answers given. For Dallas, Bigfoot clearly has some sort of Jesus allure, and its discovery, in his mind, would change the world. It’s an adventure to benefit mankind. Wayne just wants a little recognition and, of course, the money a “hot” picture would provide, though he’s not about to fake anything for the reward. No, these men take hundreds of photos and shoot thousands of hours of video because they are convinced that every smudge and shadow brings them one step closer to solving the mystery of the ages. Alas, one of Dallas’ fellow travelers dies along the way (though we never meet the man), and though remembering the beloved Fred turns Dallas into a teary mess, I laughed my ass off (and couldn’t stop for a good five minutes) when I learned that ol’ Fred had a heart attack and fell off a cliff. I couldn’t shake the image of a leathery Appalachian, overloaded with cameras, walking sticks, binoculars, and bags of trail mix, at last glimpsing the fruits of his labor, only to clutch his chest and tumble down a mountain right before snapping the money shot. But at least Fred died with a dream, as will Dallas when at last his lungs give out. And I have no doubt that when the end comes, he’ll be squeezing that plaque bestowed upon him by his fellow trackers, perhaps the lone reminder that his life was not in vain. I, for one, am not about to argue. 

2008 Denver International Film Festival

There’s a myth afoot, origins unknown, that life is worth living. It’s a powerful elixir, needless to say, and continues to hold great power despite almost hourly confirmation of having long ago been debunked. Evidence is plentiful, though one could just as easily submit the documentary Dear Zachary: A Letter to a Son About His Father and be done with it. All told, it’s one of the most depressing movies I have ever seen, and while I tend to shrug at most displays of pain and sorrow, this one had me shrinking in my seat. There have been greater tragedies, of course, than the events that unfold during these 95 minutes, and if we’re talking sheer numbers, this one doesn’t even get an invitation to the party, let alone a seat at the table. And yet, Dear Zachary’s tidal wave of despair had me flipping up the collar of my coat, stuffing my hands deep into my pockets, and shuffling out into that appallingly unjust night as if having been repeatedly kicked in the stomach. I hated you, I hated myself, and I hated the whole rotten enterprise that gives rise to such events. If this shit is even possible, I wondered, what conceivable reason do I have to get up in the morning? My god, what a horrible, horrible story.

Filmmaker Kurt Kuenne first set out to celebrate the life of his murdered friend, one Andrew Bagby; a pudgy, genial sort who seemed to have it all except for the ability to pick sane girlfriends. Working through medical school and eventually settling in Pennsylvania, he is haunted by Shirley Turner, a woman more than a decade his senior, and one capable of more evil than he ever could have known. She is flighty, obsessive, manipulative, a full-blown narcissist, and, quite predictably, a killer-in-waiting. One day, Andrew breaks off the relationship at last, and sends her on a plane back to Iowa. Rather than accept that love fades, Shirley drives non-stop back to Pennsylvania to plead her case. Her “case”, such as it is, involves luring him to a park and pumping five bullets into his head, back, and buttocks. Casually, and not missing a beat, she drives back to her home and leaves a loving voice mail on Andrew’s phone, primarily to establish her whereabouts. Needless to say, she forgets that along the way, cell phone towers have been tracking her dozens of frantic calls throughout several states, establishing firmly that she was in fact in the Keystone state during the time of the murder. Oh yeah, and her gun is a perfect match. Not that it will matter.

The events of Andrew’s murder, as well as the portrait of Shirley’s unquestionable madness, make for a crackling good story, and have us watching helplessly when the inevitable finally arrives. Throughout this first act, we watch friends and colleagues alike speak to Andrew’s generosity, humor, and imagination (the director is a childhood friend who made home movies with Andrew), and we also meet David and Kathleen Bagby, Andrew’s distraught and unimaginably strong parents. At first blush, it all sounds pretty standard: naïve young man falls for a psychopath, ends us dead, and the killer is brought to justice. Only there is no justice. Nothing of the kind. This too may seem ordinary, but the manner by which it is set aflame and used to mock grieving loved ones has to be seen to be believed. From bail to extradition to Canadian officials with heads firmly up asses (Shirley flees to New Brunswick to avoid capture), the entire process is laughable on its face, and surely one of the most infuriating rides ever captured by a documentary. To complicate matters, Turner announces that she is pregnant with Andrew’s child (the Zachary of the title). And so begins the second, most sinister act.

From this point forward, I will let the story wash over you as it will, and for once in my life, I will not play the spoiler. The events to come are shocking, though not entirely unexpected. If we take stock of this woman, we get a sense of her depravity, though I doubt we want to admit how bad it will get. The best documentaries are always those that start at one place, take a turn, and become about something else altogether, and Dear Zachary is no exception. There’s almost too much to deal with, as it calls into question every facet of a social fabric that seems to go out of its way to inspire people to vigilantism. I sure as hell understand it better than I ever have before. Andrew’s parents do as well, and to push genuinely sweet people to such considerations proves that we’re all but a slight nudge away from cracking beyond repair. So yes, it’s a legal drama of sorts, and a moving story of familial bonds, but it also considers the very nature of love itself, and why so many of us are so damn bad at it. One of the film’s unexplored elements – only hinted at by a few interview subjects – is how a smart, successful, socially popular man became so deeply involved with a woman by all accounts his polar opposite. And why are we so forgiving of glaring signs of instability, even when we know what’s just over the horizon?

It’s all that and more, and easily one of the year’s most unexpected treasures. I was taken to the very depths, and never once regretted the ride. As it all comes together, it forces the most disturbing question of all – in the absence of a god, or any “divine” punishment, how does one deal with an unrequited lust for revenge? If the very person responsible for all of your pain and anguish is no longer available, at whom (or what) does one direct the rage? And how in the fuck do some people keep going? Liquor? Denial? Jesus? What this movie proves to me at long last is that I am a fundamentally weak person, and am ill-equipped to handle anything even one-tenth as dire as this. And sure, I’d like to think that I’d bomb courthouses, or assassinate judges, or slash throats with abandon, but more honest impulses paint a picture of the solitary mourner, weeping quietly behind a locked door. And while Dear Zachary is a howl of pain in the face of a world where human happiness is the last thing ever really considered, it also nails shut that last, most terrifying coffin: we are truly powerless, and life unfolds as it must. We stand by afflicted, our screams fading fast in a sea of indifference.

2008 Denver International Film Festival

The “memoir movie,” though often a trial of unearned self-importance, can often yield great bounty, as with the staggering gem Running Stumbled from a few years back. There, the focus remained insulated and narrow, but the film had the good sense to be sick, demented, off-putting, and unfailingly entertaining. Threats were made, attacks were planned, and true, unvarnished mental illness was laid bare for the entire world to see. It understood that if you’re going to subject us to your family, they’d better be lunatics on the verge of on-screen suicides. At its worst, though, as in Morgan Dews’ Must Read After My Death, exploitation is avoided for mere “trouble,” which in this case means that dad was a fascist tyrant because he may have asked his sons to pick up their rooms now and again. The two Connecticut sots in question – Allis and Charley – are selfish, vain, and dull, and at no point do they justify their centrality to a motion picture. Sure, grandson Morgan found Allis’ collection of home movies and audio diaries, but who asked that he spend years mulling through their contents, fire up the Mac, and offer little more than the nugget that people be crazy?

Only Allis and Charley aren’t crazy, at least not in the shit-eating, running-naked-through-the-streets-at-midnight variety. Charley’s away most of the year on business, which means he commits adultery again and again, but this pretty much makes the old man as common as dirt, not the object of scorn and disgust we’re expected to loathe on sight. Oh, and kiddies? He’s earning a goddamn living, for chrissakes. I’m sorry mommy is unfulfilled at home and all, but someone needs to keep the lights on. The tapes, in addition to recording Allis’ banal musings for years on end, record “live” fights among family members, though Charley sounds pretty reasonable throughout. Is he verbally abusive and condescending, as Allis seems to claim with alarming frequency? I failed to find any evidence of either charge, and simply heard an exhausted breadwinner trying like hell to feign interest in a colossally boring family. Because these tapes were pulled from the 1960s, we’re supposed to infer a pre-feminist message of sorts; you know, the one that says women were burdened by sexist assumptions, and men got to wave their dicks around with impunity and without consequence. Bullshit then, bullshit now.

Instead of actually listening to these creeps discuss therapy, journals, and the one kid who sounds like a gurgling retard (the film claims he suffered only from dyslexia), my mind wandered with rage as I couldn’t help but think that film festivals, for all of their charm, cause untold damage by encouraging these “cathartic” pictures about family. You mean mom and dad weren’t perfect? That it’s an impossible dream to expect two human beings, especially those in close quarters with kids about, to make eyes, blow kisses, and giggle like school children for decades on end? Again, we all know these things: marriage is hard, raising a family even harder, and suburban life usually masks rage, addiction, and perversion. So why hasn’t the independent filmmaker received the memo? If it ain’t George and Martha battling before our eyes like Ali-Frazier III, then leave it for your descendents alone, not paying customers who naively expect to be challenged now and again.

Maybe one could interpret the documentary as an indictment of therapy itself, only these people love it too much to bolster that impression. Charley, for all of his sins (he wonders why he returns from fucking women not his wife to a filthy abode) is a downy lamb compared to Allis, who apparently fails to do the housework because she can’t keep away from the tape recorder. Many of these recordings are also LPs that were made to keep in touch with daddy while he was away. Perhaps Charley was a cocksucker at heart, but I couldn’t locate the bastard within, what with the volumes of loving words directed at the kids and all. So why the fuck was the movie made? To show that a woman left to her own devices will record everything not nailed down, and film even more? Who in the hell takes so many photos, anyway? For a person who hates her life with such relish, you’d think she wouldn’t want to fill a warehouse with so many reminders of its pitiless march.

2008 Denver International Film Festival

Movies about teachers inevitably become exercises in sentimentality and wistful nostalgia, as we are instructed to look back fondly on the kind old souls who inspired us to reach for the stars. From Goodbye, Mr. Chips to To Sir, With Love, education is seen as a transformative experience, complete with hard-won battles, painful (but life-affirming) lessons, and maybe even a wink of satisfaction as we head out the door for the last time. Even when the classroom is less romantic, as in modern fairy tales like Stand and Deliver or Dangerous Minds, the unmistakable message is that no kid is too hard to reach, and redemption is but a soaring monologue away.

Leave it to France, then, and director Laurent Cantet, to provide a long-overdue antidote to such mind-numbing tripe. The Class, a docudrama that rings so true as to remain indistinguishable from a Maysles Brothers piece, is infuriating, maddening, and thought-provoking all at once, but wholly without bias or the hint of an agenda. Because the film never leaves the school, and rarely ventures from Francois’ (Francois Begaudeau) modest classroom, there are precious few outside forces except what we can extract from the teachers and students themselves. Here, it is up to us.

Despite no overt message or axe-grinding, the class is, quite obviously, a microcosm of contemporary France and as such, an exploration of its current identity crisis. Francois’ class is mostly of immigrant stock, comprised mainly of West Africans, Chinese, and Moroccans, though this is not at all a heart-warming stew of togetherness. In fact, the kids are all, with rare exceptions, rude, insolent, and profoundly ignorant, and at no point do they warm up to the teacher’s prodding. There are no angels in this bunch, and when the year is done, most will confess to not learning a damn thing. And how could they? Francois spends most of his time answering insipid questions, breaking up fights, and trying desperately to remain in charge.

Only he long ago lost that battle. In this new world — though the issue is never pressed as a political point — it’s all about the erroneous notion that a melting pot never boils over. The Class isn’t pro- or anti-immigration per se, but simply matter-of-fact. Here’s the result of such a policy, unchecked and unquestioned, and no answers are forthcoming. America still hasn’t come to terms with its own diversity, but for old Europe, the fights appear to be just beginning. They’ve always been there, of course, given the continent’s brutal colonial past, but here and now, it’s within their borders at last (the French title, Entre les murs, literally translates as “between the walls”). Practice and theory rarely so neatly converge.

Thankfully, there are no “big tests” or “big games” to burden the story, nor do we go home with any of the cast. The teacher has no real biography to impart, and all we know of him is what we see in the classroom. The students are also what they appear to be, and even an essay-writing exercise, which in American hands could have turned into showdowns, tears, and the inevitable hugs, is simply another assignment that the little shits treat with disdain. A kid is expelled, another reveals a modest surprise, and teachers exchange heated words and frustrations during their weary meetings, but for all we see, the school will continue on in the same vein, and next year will spit out the same untested graduates.

The Class also asks generational questions, and whether or not we can ever secure the desired responsibility from kids who have been coddled and flattered from the cradle forward. These are young people given free reign in terms of self-expression, but at no point are they expected to deal with the ramifications of their behavior. Case in point: during one of many dead-end teacher roundtables, discipline is discussed, but the adults are so clueless as how to proceed that they all but admit there isn’t a single workable solution. Moreover, each kid expects learning to be so personalized that even the names involved in sentence diagramming must respect cultural boundaries. Surrender seems the only rational response.

No sane human being ever enters the teaching profession, of course, though one can’t help but admire the sorry bastards who give it a go. The Class is where we’ve been tending for decades, only now it’s too late to go back. It’s all about survival now, or avoiding lawsuits and self-righteous parents, with the actual work so secondary as to be invisible. We’re so lost, in fact, that success is measured not in graduation rates or test scores raised, but the number of classes completed without punches being thrown. The most crucial component of the immigration debate regarding education, then, is not whether integrated classrooms are a good thing (of course they are), but how they stand as a shining example of how sensitivity has replaced sense in our public institutions. We’ve covered all the bases and left the most important one unmanned.

We’re so concerned about respecting cultural factors and differences that we’ve stopped paying attention to whether or not education — broad, all-encompassing, and challenging, not simply pandering — is taking hold. Cantet’s film, then, is a cry in the darkness, but not in any one direction. Again, diversity is the key to any flourishing civilization, and no one can sensibly question its merits (looking in, Francois’ group is a beautiful mix) but what of a country not quite ready for its full implementation? Does a sovereign nation have the right to preserve a dominant culture and expect some degree of assimilation? And what does that even mean, anyway? Surely we’re all the product of a multitude of forces, right? Still, if the answers lie with the children, we may not like where we’re headed.

As with most American cities, there is a war for the heart of Santa Fe, New Mexico, and as expected, it largely involves money. On the one hand, you have a culturally rich downtown, complete with expensive hotels, top resorts, museums, classy restaurants, and wildly overpriced boutiques and art galleries. On the other, you have the dull, monotonous outskirts, which are littered by strip malls, nothing more upscale than a Motel 6, and endless rows of chains, filth, and litter. The Santa Fe of legend, and the one that continues to draw artist, tourist, and wealthy retiree alike, is a striking place indeed, even if the city square is teeming with scruffy vagrants, semi-conscious Native Americans peddling 244 varieties of turquoise, and the requisite nonsensical protest, which, on the weekend of our visit, appeared to have something to do with Darfur, but is not above bringing the WWI-era slaughter of Armenians into the mix. All told, it is the part of town people fall in love with at first glance, and is the primary selling point for one of the nation’s smallest state capitals. Adobe defines the scene, as it does everywhere else, but here, there’s a dignity to the sameness, adding a quaint charm to the surrounding’s unavoidable ability to set the mind and body at ease. As such, there’s a quiet defiance to Santa Fe; a resistance to bloat and mindless development, but an understanding that cash is still the magic that makes the world go ‘round.

Drive a short distance from the city center, and you’ll find pockets of solitude and beauty, but just as likely, you will encounter the underbelly of a region that prides itself on sculpture, canvas, and world-class opera. Grime and grit await all who venture forth, as well as the occasional narcoleptic drunk who finds nothing odd about hovering on the verge of collapse in the dead center of an empty parking lot. Take a walk through the trashy mall near the edge of town and behold the hoochie explosion, where every female of the Hispanic persuasion is primed for employment at the nearest strip club. Crispy hair tumbles forth with all the majesty of a diabetic preschooler, also in tow by the dozens. There is madness, noise, and impending pregnancy afoot, and it is a striking contrast to the downtown’s artistic bent. Not surprising, then, that the annual film festival, held in nine venues dotting a few square miles, is a downtown affair, both in attitude and attendance. While Hispanics constitute nearly half of Santa Fe’s population, I failed to see a single Latino at any festival event. What this proves I leave up to the reader, but by all accounts, there is a racial and class divide that the city fathers fail to acknowledge. Is Santa Fe but another example of an American town comfortable with its brown members scrubbing and shuffling behind the scenes, when deference to decidedly white capital is its primary function? Hardly, as many of the artists themselves are both Mexican and Native American, but do they exist solely for exploitive purposes? Where do they go after they ply their wares? Are they to help furnish an image, only to avoid active participation altogether?

Despite my extensive background in sociology and years of training in the field, answers to these questions continue to elude my keen insight, and will likely go undiscovered for generations to come. And are they really all that important anyway, given that I was staying in a delightful villa with dual showerheads and heated floors in both the bathroom and kitchen? What’s more, there was a heated towel rack, as well as complimentary champagne and caviar. And what in the blue blazes was in that cheese? And hell, didn’t Santa Fe pride itself on living wage legislation, ensuring success and fulfillment for all who dared to live the dream? The “other” could take care of itself for the time being, and I had every intention of ignoring its cries for the duration of my long weekend. Santa Fe has come to feel like a second home in many ways, and hobnobbing with its well-dressed and well-heeled was about as class conscious as I was going to get. Sure, I might dine in a dive of a pizza joint for the hell of it, or even travel the dozen or so miles to the Camel Rock Casino, where I would throw all forms of caution to the wind as I craftily snuck away with thirty American dollars through my preternatural gift in the art of roulette. Who could have foreseen that I would hit not one, but two numbers with a single fifty-cent chip, thereby ensuring a wary eye from a nervous pit boss? Sure, there were leathery drunks and gravelly-voiced ghosts from the rez to contend with, but one must get dirty in order to appreciate the good life, once attained. Flush with dough, the movies called us home.

Off the Rocker: The Senior Side of the Strip

Martin Scorsese’s Casino was but half the tale. Apparently, under cover of darkness, though not later than 5pm, aging lions and their female partners are dancing to dizziness, all in defiance of the maxim that old people spend their days and nights forcing others to listen to their maladies and failures to have bowel movements. Shockingly, and much to my eternal embarrassment, these octogenarians and their younger compatriots have more energy than I have ever known, and have no shame in proving it again and again. Set to the music of an aging lounge act that would embarrass Frank Sinatra Jr., these wacky gray panthers spin, twirl, dip, and even simulate sex when the time is right. And sex! My god, to hear these men speak, you’d think shattered hips and bad tickers had never crossed the paths of the aged. One gentleman in particular, a randy old coot with the libido of a teenager, speaks of intercourse so loudly and so often that I half expected him to attack his girlish partner right on screen. Tucked inside the bawdy adventurousness is a trite message about “staying young at heart,” but that’s not half as important as knowing that prunes with canes are getting more pussy in a weekend than any random year from my entire existence. But I’ll be damned if these oldsters didn’t win me over, and even though I hated their optimism, pluck, and financial security, they at least had the good sense to avoid being burdens to their children.

Still Kicking

In keeping with the theme of defying age, this little 33-minute short film made me even more depressed, as I watched women past the age of 100 do more in an hour than I do all week. All in their 90s or well past the century mark, these grand dames painted, played piano, strolled around town, and quite clearly, hadn’t lost a single mental step. They were defiant, opinionated, and talented in turn, though I rarely considered their contributions, as I couldn’t help but calculate how long these fuckers have been collecting Social Security. Still, if they are passionate about life, why not hang around? The film proves conclusively that one must care about something in order to remain in the world, which is curtains for the likes of me, as I gave up the ghost after college. What will motivate my crusty heap when I get along in years? And hell, these people have also suffered, outliving everyone in their midst, even their children. I’ve lived a cushy, unchallenging existence, and couldn’t generate one-tenth the enthusiasm as the woman born during the presidency of Theodore Roosevelt. So yes, I admire the hell out of them, and tip my cap to their tenacity. Let’s just keep it a novelty, though, lest we go bankrupt before I collect my just rewards from Uncle Sam.

Roswell 1847

Despite not having the stomach to sit through this film’s entirety, I did manage to stay long enough to experience a laughing fit so intense, I was still wiping away tears while I was storming out in protest. The movie, while containing a decent premise (what if the aliens of 1947 had actually landed a century earlier?), could have contained the lost footage of The Magnificent Ambersons and still not risen above its piss-poor production values, which were akin to some nitwit turning on his archaic camcorder and asking his friends to vamp with little, if any, conviction. The acting was dreadful, though nothing in an entire box set of Ed Wood cheapies could touch the waxwork trying desperately to sound Irish, even though her accent sounded like every other language but the one she was trying to emulate. Line readings were awkward, when not soaked in eye-rolling incoherence, and to make matters worse, the best performance was by a black chick pretending to be an Indian. She did little but sniff horse dung and dash about without direction, but she did her best with an obnoxious role. Was it a farce? A deliberately campy exercise trying to take the fish out of water theme to new, ridiculous heights? Maybe, but when an obscenely tanned meth addict, trying her best to be a can-can dancer, passed in front of a framed portrait of President Lincoln, when the very title told me it was 1847, I lost it completely. My howling might have offended fellow patrons, but by that time, so many of them had left the theater that I was all but tickling myself before an empty house. Some might argue the picture was a deliberate anachronism, but given the incompetence in every other area of the production, I chose to believe it was an unconscious mistake. I doubt these dullards knew better.

Trail End

In twenty-six nearly unbearable minutes, director Shannan Keenan replayed David Lynch’s The Straight Story, leaving out that film’s quiet power, charm, and originality, and substituting near-toxic levels of sentimentality, rambling self-importance, and pointless predictability. Christ Almighty, even the music was the same! Some old coot wants to make “one last ride” on his horse to visit his wife’s grave, and neither rainstorm nor a fall in a river is going to stop him. He camps, reflects, and waves to passersby, all to our collective boredom and frustration. One wonders why people wait all their lives for that big break, only to wallow in cliché and the decidedly unnecessary. By the end, when the geezer sits graveside to utter more banalities, I wondered why he couldn’t flip around in a rage, strip naked, and send his Appaloosa to the great beyond. It wouldn’t have made a lick of sense, but at least it would have been original.

Monster Camp

Shooting fish in a barrel doesn’t begin to describe any depiction of LARPers and their wacky happenings, but who knew this shit was so damned confusing? Focusing on NERO Seattle, a ridiculous gathering of fantasy-obsessed nerds and overgrown teenagers, the film is both sad and hilarious, but at no time did I understand what in the hell these people were doing while immersed in their “games.” To a man (and the occasional woman), these were people who seemed to have few interests beyond World of Warcraft (some spent up to 16 hours a day on the internet playing it), but when they came together one weekend a month, they were accepted at last. Or were they? Conflict and jealousy seemed to eat this group alive, and by the end, the owner/operator wanted the fuck out of the operation. And when a young man manages to find a girlfriend at the isolated retreat (yes, it happens), he best keep the outside world at bay, lest the drama of romance infect the dignity of foam swords and packets of birdseed passing as various elixirs and deadly projectiles. Much of the film consists of maddening footage of the actual “plots,” which are alleged to have depth and unspeakable intricacies, but could not be deciphered by the sharpest of minds, even working in isolation with fellow scientists. The group’s rule book — clocking in at over 200 densely worded pages — makes physics seems approachable by comparison, especially when we are treated to the black hole of the scoring system. And the powers each character possesses? I’m convinced not even they know, as people seem to fall over dead for no other reason than sheer confusion.

Picture this: a lumbering boar of a man, painted blue and wearing a flowing robe, dashes about with his sword and perhaps a test tube or two in his pocket. He is approached by no less than fifteen fellow travelers, all of whom are shouting at the top of their lungs while waving swords of their own in the crisp Washington air. That they all scream at once is a given, but within the space of a few seconds, the man surrounded deciphers every word, knowing that three of the wounds are damaging, five others bounce away harmless, and another sixty-three are treated immediately by a potion granted power by a bipedal tree. Hold on, though, for he shouted “summon tentacles!” just in time, thereby enabling his sword to take on additional powers no one but the water elves could perceive. And so this very scene is repeated again and again for hours at a stretch, with the occasional chase mixed in to provide a bit of color. It speaks volumes that these shut-ins have crafted a fantasy world more complex and rule-based than reality itself, but at least here, the most grievous wound is likely to be a grass stain on one’s cloak, rather than a fragile heart pushed through rejection’s meat grinder. And while all are demented and shockingly dull (the single-mindedly obsessed are rarely anything but), look for the kid named Carter, an unemployed freak show who is in his eighth or so year of high school, and just might be the most obnoxious human being who ever lived. Though the dad who pays his daughter’s allowance in fictional gold pieces might yet give him a run for his money.

The Cherry Tree

At last, a short that gets it. In a packed six minutes, this end of the world tale, complete with zombies and a refreshing sense of humor, manages to send up reality television and Hollywood in one fell swoop. Get in, throw a curveball, and get out: what short films used to do before they got cute.

A Dream in Doubt

On September 15, 2001, Balbir Singh Sodhi, a Sikh immigrant from India, was shot and killed in front of his Mobil service station in Mesa, Arizona by Frank Roque, a deranged bigot bent on revenge. Roque, pushed along by a post-9/11 fever that equated all “towel heads” with terrorism and anti-American hostility, never paused to consider that the Sikh religion has nothing at all to do with Islam, and that the victim, while “different” in skin tone from Frank’s friends and family, was neither Arab nor Middle Eastern. Thankfully, though, this documentary is not about the fanatic whose blind hatred brought about the most senseless of acts. Instead, it is a true immigrant’s tale, and how the victim’s brother, Rana, continued to believe in the American Dream despite losing two brothers to violence and hate. On one level, the film is a powerful indictment of the typical whitebread American’s inability to perceive cultural distinctions, but on another, it demonstrates that while most of us take citizenship for granted, it is the newcomer to our shores who often works the hardest to ensure personal success. And of course, throughout the trial and sentencing (and unsolved murder of his sibling in San Francisco), Rana remains America’s greatest champion, clinging to notions of justice and fair play that would normally sound quaint and naïve, but achieve a rare power when spoken by someone who has truly known their opposite.

Resting Places

Narrated by Liam Neeson, this infuriating documentary attempts to solve the riddle of descansos (Spanish for “place of rest”), the roadside memorials that seem to dot highways from the United States to Australia. Their origin is largely a mystery, though some connect the current incarnation to an ancient ritual of dropping flowers and mementos along the path taken by a body on its way to a burial site. Whatever the source, they are now an engine of controversy, as they involve two equally important issues: church/state separation, and the sanctity of property, be it public or private. For some, the crosses, pictures, flowers, and stuffed animals are reminders of lives destroyed, and during the film, many relatives and loved ones come forward to testify to the power of place. As they argue, the exact spot of death becomes sacred, and they want the world to remember who (and what) was lost there. For those not burdened by sentimentality and religious fervor, they are eyesores and unlawful intrusions; overtly Christian displays plopped down on government land with implied endorsement for the messages therein. And as a civil liberties attorney so rightly claims, if the state doesn’t take a stand against these memorials, what else will it tolerate on taxpayer supported land? And would it be acceptable to the public if a family placed Satanic symbols and sacrifices along the road because their child believed likewise? That is a test no one in the film attempts, but it’s obvious that such a move would prove conclusively that this is a concerted effort to bring Jesus into the public sphere.

Still, despite the sound legal case against the crosses and the like, any real objection must first be grounded in the desire to see roadways free of clutter. Highways are not cemeteries, and to argue otherwise is to confuse a place of carnage for an appropriate mourning location. It’s about context, and prayer services should not be held on a median in the middle of I-70. The arrogance of the grieving families is palpable, and they all but insist that death has signed over the deed to the patch of earth they now sprinkle with trinkets and mementos. The film is even-handed enough to consider both sides, but it cannot be denied that any failure to rip these people new assholes is based on the erroneous belief that tragedy exempts one from criticism. That these “resting places” are seen around the world proves that Americans are far from owning insanity outright, but it is equally depressing to realize how pervasive religious belief is for what is largely considered the civilized world. Again, the filmmaker insists that there are no clear answers (frustrating, but honest at least), but as there are no laws protecting these displays, it is incumbent on all good citizens to remove them at will, tossing them in the trash where they belong. They are crass, obnoxious, and vile, forcing weary travelers to share in the tears of a stranger. Even now, and especially in public, we have the right to be left alone.

The Child King

What film festival would be complete without the story of a retarded teenager and his overwhelming urge to meet Santa Claus? Jeremy, the boy in question, has recently lost his mother, and when his younger brother doubts Saint Nick’s existence (as well as God’s), he steals dad’s car and drives the boy north, hoping to find the fabled jolly old man. Yes, I said drives. Then again, this is the sort of movie that has a kid with Down Syndrome begin the quest behind the wheel of a car, only to end up in an operating room, dressed in scrubs, saving a girl’s life. It’s also a movie where the two boys bypass all security, sneak onto a plane, and play around in the cockpit, even meeting aw-shucks pilots who appear to have forgotten 9/11 altogether. Apparently, though, Santa does exist, because Jeremy meets old bearded men along the way, encounters suspicious elves, and even receives a coin that says, “In God We Trust, In Santa We Believe.” And how. While the tone of the movie is light and fun (oh, how our retard gets into a pickle!), there’s an aggressive propaganda at work, equating a lack of faith with evil, and a child’s innocence with the ejaculate of the angels. Jeremy is a hero not because he scares the living fuck out of his dad, or breaks no fewer than twelve laws on his deranged vacation, but rather due to his mindless insistence that the unseen is to be taken as gospel, be it Jesus or Santa.

Needless to say, Jeremy is abrasive and hostile, and he lectures his brother with all the authority of a half-wit in search of velvet. Suddenly, without warning, he insists he is dying, and is rushed to the emergency room, where he is admitted without delay. A 15-year-old retard with a 103-degree temperature and lacking an adult guardian? Send him in, and please, ask no questions about where the hell he came from. Before this, Jeremy proves that he’s at the right hand of the almighty by handing out $20 bills to homeless vets and befriending tattooed bikers with the proverbial hearts of gold. Only once is Jeremy ridiculed (don’t call this young man stupid), but the kid who inflicts the damage is so despicable that he all but sprouts horns. Oh, and Jeremy proves how responsible he is by handing out more cash to two kids who claim to have inside knowledge of Santa’s whereabouts. Yes, this is the same boy who, at film’s end, is flattered into believing that the world is his oyster, all because he has a good heart and noble spirit. Why not put him in a cockpit or a hospital ER? Maybe the same fairy dust that keeps our boys safe from harm will help land the plane as it careens out of control because the drooling fuck crawled below to munch on the hydraulic lines. So yes, while the movie is an attack on reason and good sense, it knows its audience, of which I appear to be a part. For as bad as it was, I’ll be damned if I didn’t sit tight until the credits rolled.

Confessions of a Late Bloomer

Thought decidedly average and obvious, this short film became a riotous, unexpected treat when it preceded the family friendly The Child King, thereby shocking the hell out of the wee ones and moms in attendance. As the story of a short, under-developed high school kid, it gave us nothing new under the sun, but with every dick joke, reference to masturbation, or sexual innuendo, I cackled like a plucked chicken. Visible shock registered throughout the theater, and I half expected heavy foot traffic in the direction of the exits. And when the kid steals a ruler to measure his penis? Beautiful, baby, and a delightful way to make mama’s ride home with junior that much more uncomfortable. Oh yeah, does the geek get the girl? Of course he does, but only after we hear his mother mutter, “Has anyone seen my lotion?” as he audibly jerks off in the bathroom. My warmest regards to those who scheduled this piece before the one festival offering best suited for youngsters. Chalk one up for the good guys.

Strictly Background

The jewel of the festival, this documentary about movie extras (or “background actors,” if you prefer) is entertaining as hell, but also an insightful look at the profound delusion that plagues the entertainment industry. Profiling ten men and women who spend their days hunting for parts (either by wandering lots or making phone calls), these unsung personalities remain undeniably valuable, given that no movie could exist without them. Some of these folks are SAG, some not, but all fight the good fight while trying to make a living in utter anonymity. And yes, most refuse to believe they are but “bit players,” and one even strolls a video store flashing DVDs in which he appeared. Mind you, his scenes often last less than five seconds (and may be of nothing more than his back or the top of his head), but each one is recalled with utter fondness, as if those brief flashes before the camera constitute stardom. Curiously, they often believe that they’ve “worked” with particular directors or celebrities, even if they don’t get within 100 yards of them during the shoot. Part of a crowd scene where one face is indistinguishable from the next? No matter, as that’s enough for an extra to claim an identification with the finished product.

On the whole, though, despite the self-absorption that refuses to acknowledge reality (no, you will not become a star), these are self-deprecating, pleasant people, and their love for the movies is never less than infectious. Fortunately, the personalities dominate (and we really get to know all ten), but on a strictly educational basis, we see what it’s like to live life in the shadows. From cattle calls to costume hunting, late nights to long days, we come to understand the process as well as can be expected. This isn’t a movie for insiders, then, but an accessible, loving tribute to weirdos and eccentrics alike. And while we often cringe at the unwillingness to bow to reason, the film is never condescending, ensuring our connection to the material and not our insistence in standing above it. Hollywood and the allure of glamour may bring out the worst in people, but in the struggle to stand apart from the crowd, these same folks often make the most interesting subjects, and we are glad to spend a little time in their world, however foreign it is to our own.

Blue, Bunny

A parody of Vincent Gallo’s The Brown Bunny, it’s a virtual remake of the infamous blowjob scene, only without the actual fellatio to make it interesting. The blond chick is kind of hot, but she only simulates the act, making this short more tedious than titillating.

2007 Denver International Film Festival

A short distance from Taos, New Mexico, on a patch of earth about fifteen miles square, live approximately 400 people; all “off the grid,” and, to a man, woman, and child, united by the belief that life is best lived outside the mainstream. Though without electricity, running water, or even stable incomes, these people live harmoniously, always with a sense that true meaning comes from cooperation, friendship, and the freedom to be left alone. At least that’s the romantic side of the coin. In truth, and as one resident admits at one point, though with a sense of pride rather than shame, this isolated neighborhood is “the world’s largest outdoor insane asylum,” and rather than renegades, heroes, and unbridled individualists, we have drunks, drug addicts, gun nuts, paranoid survivalists, and, most frequently, mentally ill veterans suffering from extreme cases of post-traumatic stress disorder. Most of us would like to believe that abandoning civilization is the stuff of legends and dreamers alike, but as life on the mesa proves, it is defined not by poetry and star-gazing, but dirt, poverty, and full-tilt insanity. As one man states, “Out here, we don’t call 911, we use 357.” As in Magnum, friend. And he blasts away at the sky to prove it.

Still, as ridiculous as these burnouts and junkies are, there’s a nobility to them, as they can at least lay claim to an authenticity so lacking in civilized society. They are out of their fucking minds to be sure, and prove it again and again, but they’re far from concerned about the judgments of outsiders. Take Gene, for example, a half-cocked cuckoo living in a ramshackle mess of a home not suitable for himself, let alone his children. But there they are, and from all appearances, they love this bizarre lifestyle. And what kid wouldn’t? Dad’s taken them out of school for good, believing that they are far better served by acquiring practical skills than anything to be learned in a classroom. Sure, Gene is demonstrably unstable, and is clearly using his kids to get back at his ex-wife (now living in Connecticut), but why not try and make a demented camping trip last a lifetime? And yet, despite his shortcomings, Gene is arguably one of the normal ones, as characters cross our path that are each unique creations, but somehow uniform in that they fit the stereotype of those not suited for the suit-and-tie world. Were these people educated, sophisticated, and reasonable, we might accuse them of “playing poor,” but at least they wouldn’t be yet another caravan of loonies trying to convince us that such communities are anything but depressing dumping grounds for the homeless, only with the added touch of the great outdoors.

We have earth mommas who yammer endlessly about “female aura,” while assuming that we want to watch them take their monthly baths in a nearby stream. We have kooks named Luna, Moonbow, and Cowboy, and some roughneck named Maine, who just happens to be fighting cancer by sitting by and doing nothing. There’s Dreadie Jeff, who claims to hate President Bush exclusively, though I imagine he loathes anyone holding even a small degree of power over his life. And down the road a piece is Stan, the pig farmer, who takes in runaways by the carload, not to molest them in a drunken rage as we’d expect, but rather to act as parent, counsel, or simply a good friend. There’s a touch of madness in his eyes, of course, and a sense of mystery behind his unkempt beard, but we can see why the young people love him so. There isn’t a trace of indecency to be found, and his refusal to judge even the worst of cases makes him the only sort of saint we’re bound to get these days: one without property or any trace of his marbles. Interestingly, at another film festival screening, Stan sat directly behind us, chatting amicably with a few filmmakers in town for their movies. Hearing him speak, it is clear that he’s a good man and likely to be the first to shake your hand or place dirty, spit-stained coins on the counter to buy you a cup of coffee, but I still wondered what the hell he was doing on the mesa. He loves it, yes, but why? Is it easier to love strangers than a real family he can call his own?

Stan’s patience reaches its biggest test when he encounters Virginia, a block of wood passing as a human being who just happens to be among the dumbest creatures ever to set foot on the mesa. She is drawn to Stan’s warmth and guidance, but apparently not enough to avoid getting knocked up by a crackhead who last saw sobriety in the Reagan administration. Virginia also loves the rock, and though she quits long enough to have the baby, it never occurs to anyone on the mesa that a certifiable retard might not be the best bet for mother of the year. And so the dark side of living the dream. With romantic visions clogging their brains, no one in the community dares make a judgment call of any kind. Freedom, then, becomes an endorsement of recklessness, and in the name of staying out of each other’s way, a child’s life is ruined forever. Sure, there’s no excuse for the authorities to raid a resident’s house for marijuana, especially in light of the compound’s distance from any real city or town, but what of the anti-government sentiment that coincides with a willingness to accept disability checks? And if they firmly believe in self-sufficiency, what of the monthly trips to the food bank, where the generosity of others is exploited for personal gain? As always, there are compromises with any tough stand, and even on this godforsaken ground, there are rules and regulations to live by.

This is best typified by the arrival of the “Nowhere Kids,” runaways and drug fiends who are fleeing abuse and neglect, but because of their youth, threaten the stability of the small subculture. Some of the kids steal and hoard weapons, but through meetings with the elders, a peace is reached without, as they so proudly proclaim, bringing in the police. Sure, it may have worked this time around, but what’s to be done if Mama Phyllis is found raped and gutted by the wood pile? Or if Virginia goes into cardiac arrest after one too many trips to the coke shed? No evidence is on display, but one wonders what limits there are to their sense of “going it alone.” Regardless, this is the kind of movie that is always too brief, and one that could only be found at a film festival. It is both insightful and delightfully entertaining, more so because the people are so blissfully fucked in the head. Many talk of plots, conspiracies, and imminent threats, but if they’re miles from nowhere during such rants, who are we to care? Only a fool seeks to evade responsibility of any kind, and the first sign of mental instability is an affinity for anarchy, but if they’re outside the city limits, they can howl at the moon until intoxicated by hysteria if they so desire. As hopeless as they are, at least they’re not on some street corner, bugging me for change and bringing down the property value.

So dad’s extreme extroversion leads to his infidelity, which only seems to bother the lad at this point, as mom obviously came to terms with it years ago. Sonny boy could learn a thing or two from the woman. You live in paradise, are the child of two successful doctors, and even manage to shag some hot Scottish maid when you’re barely out of puberty, for fuck’s sake. Get over your precious self already and move the fuck on. The film begins in the present, but uses pointless flashbacks to establish the alleged pain and regret, even if there’s no visual evidence on display. Sure, Blake catches his dad kissing another woman during some outing, but based on the reaction, one would think he’d uncovered a storage facility packed to the gills with blood, bile, and neatly stacked body parts. Again, the actors try their best to stay awake throughout this long, dreary mess, but no one but the most forgiving filmgoer could ever be fooled. And based on the applause and festival buzz that followed, the weekend appears to have been populated by fool and fool alike. What were they cheering? The death bed tears? The painful first loves and youthful temptations that have been played out hundreds of times before? And if this, a meaningless slog through predictable family dynamics, could generate goodwill and even hearty recommendations, what on earth would raise an objection?