Standard Operating Procedure

Written and Directed by Errol Morris
USA; 2008

We're at a cultural point where intellectual coolness, a plea for middle America humanism, and blogs in the NY Times about the vague metaphysics of documentary photography can't justify a failure to make a real statement about why things are wrong in the world and who are the culprits. Mr. Morris, at a talkback after the Tribeca premier of his latest piece of polished softcore, made for great entertainment by pointing his finger to the ceiling and shouting in his characteristically cartoonish timbre (perhaps what the offspring of Betty Boop and Foghorn Leghorn would sound like): "This thing goes all the way to the top!" Apparently the PFC's responsible for the Abu Ghraib debacle can rest easy, because according to Errol Morris, George W. signed the Code Red. He also went on to name a CIA member involved in the torture proceedings hinted at in Standard Operating Procedure, although none of this stuff is in the actual film. He continued to generally made a bleeding heart lefty case for the untold human story. Sorry, Errol, but while 1999's Mr. Death was saved by a fascinating fringe aspect and the fact that Holocaust Revisionists are hardly ever taken seriously, in 2003 you had the devil himself on the stand and couldn't, or wouldn't, make him say what every progressive thinker in this country needed to hear. The Fog of War backed down from what could have been a revelation from the life of former Defense Secretary Robert McNamara, rather than a watered-down "lesson" where, among other silly pontificating, the modern world's colonial rottweiler tried to take Ralph Nader's credit for automobile safety rather than admit that it was he who orchestrated and perpetuated the Vietnam War, America's biggest ever foreign policy failure. Well, second biggest at least.

Which brings us to Iraq. Morris described at the Tribeca screening how he couldn't gain clearance for interviews with any of Abu Ghraib's offending GI's, nor did he find any Iraqis involved in the incidents, nor would any high-ranking US officials speak to his Interrotron (the camera and video playback system he uses for interviews so that it appears his subjects are speaking directly to the audience). I'm genuinely surprised nobody over in the Bush clubhouse would speak with him, considering how good he made McNamara look in 2003. Bush Sr. and his buddies are perfect protégés of the original empire gangster, maybe they could have used an Errol Morris film to improve public image in the eyes of lefties who cling to Errol Morris and his political jello-spine in the same way that people who shop at Whole Foods and build giant houses in the middle of untouched forests think they're environmentally-conscious. Anyway, Morris couldn't get any of those really good interviews, so he put together a crappy humanist story about the innocent 21-year-old privates who didn't do enough jail time for their lack of decency. He also made some half-assed comments about the power of photography and its ability to tell a story (but, shocking! it's not the whole story). Slap some Robert Richardson photography in there, close-ups of blood drops, an ace with Saddam's face, and a paper shredder. Call up Danny Elfman and ask him if he can do a Philip Glass impression. You've got yourself another hit, man. But instead of a real money shot, we're left only with simulated. Errol Morris is becoming the Shannon Tweed of the doc world.

i saw this first...

My Blueberry Nights,
just in case you missed it. I saw this during its Asia release, because my life is so glamorous I spent four nights in Singapore catching up on movies..

Boarding Gate

written and directed by Olivier Assayas
France, Luxembourg, 2007

Sandra blurts out the point so obviously in the second scene that it completely takes the fun out of the subsequent ones. "You always got harder when you told me what we were going to do than you did when we actually did it." Great line, though. The story is more interesting in between the action sequences—of which there are few. I'm hoping, though, that this isn't merely an effect caused by Sandra's appearances in lingerie—of which there are many. Olivier Assayas' latest film in a career-tainting string of disappointments after 1996's Irma Vep (although I quite liked his Paris, je t'aime segment) flirts with redemption in a way similar to main character Sandra's vain, last-ditch attempt at the same. Assayas continues in BG to plug seedy sexual attractions, B-movie genre bends (self-admitted this time, as if he needs to remind everyone why he keeps making films at all?), and an anti-bombshell femme fatale into his usual formula. The resulting meta-fest ends up with its lead actors simply chasing each other around the x-axis, taking turns in the focus range. It resembles less an exploitation film and more a Directing for Film 101 final project. At least it's interesting until we decide who's chasing whom. One talent of Assayas', like so many critics-turned-filmmakers, is he really makes an audience leave the theater feeling smart as long as they understand what the hell just happened. Sandra whored herself around for a long time in her twenties, and now that she's burned out in her thirties she seeks, through that same lifestyle, to phase herself out of the game. Simple.

Asia Argento is so terrifyingly attractive, I'll forgive her butchering this potentially effective script. The photography and soundtrack fall under the same category. That is to say, effective on the surface. Assayas and fellow heady shooter Yorick Le Saux (I don't really know much of this guy's work. I only say "heady" because he's French, too) keep things either too dark to see far enough into the scene, or are careful to keep a sharp focus only on the foreground, leaving the rest completely indecipherable. An easy visual metaphor for surface beauty. For such a complex filmmaker, Assayas' techniques are usually fairly straightforward when broken down. Asia Argento is so terrifyingly attractive, I'll...(did I say this already?) Moving on, Asia Argento is so... I just can't shake it.

Anyway, Asia has been excellent before. I call in question The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things, a film where she played a convict with the kind of conviction it takes to bring to life not just a bad-girl (which she is anyway), but a real embodiment of desperation. BG doesn't see her with any commitment to this world. I'd call it a problem with theory-devotional filmmaking. Argento's foray into filmmaking shows something like holistic ignorance of a critical reception. It's a don't know/don't care attitude that really keeps a film like that one breathing. This one, like the rest of Assayas' career, is marked by a fear of commitment. Non-film theorists often make the best filmmakers. And for the record, in regards to Assayas' non-actors, well, let's just say Kim Gordon was WAY better on stage.

Bob Muir and the Enemy Below

"That's just so wrong," say the T-shirts, the website, the people in the audience, etc. Bob stands to stage right, while The Enemy Below positions himself opposite. Sandwiched between these two irreverent scoundrels are Insect Girl (the evil hottie) and Trafalgar the Square (the good hottie). With S-Dog on keys and The Dude! rocking the skins in the back, this sex-tet (literally) combines rock and roll, burlesque, and poor, poor taste with a unique ease. "Chain me up, tie me to the bedpost/ Oh, whip my ass till it looks like a French Roast," I could go on for pages describing the demented genius in the songwriting, but lines like these speak for themselves. The band's modest mission is to "shock and amuse, nothing more," or so they claim. I had the supreme pleasure of a Bob Muir and the Enemy Below experience on Tuesday night at The Delancey, and not only am I shocked and amused, but I'm also befuddled, flabbergasted, disgusted, and totally aroused (all at the same time). I make fun, but honestly, the experience is one in a million, and the band is so fucking loveable I simply must go see them again at their CD release show, May 31st at Brooklyn's Luna Lounge, and you should too.

Check them out at myspace.com/bobmuirandtheenemybelow. Just so you can get a sense of what I'm talking about, here's a set list I stole from the stage floor after the show, amazing...

CJ7

directed by Stephen Chow
written by Stephen Chow and Chi Keung Fung
Hong Kong 2008




Stephen Chow has always made grown-up movies that appeal to kids. Or maybe it's kids' movies that appeal to grown-ups. Or maybe his brand of unabashed stooge slapstick, a commitment to the campiest of visual effects, and an eye for the contemporary despite leanings toward a cultural universality (literally this time), are just the elements that happen to get results across the age spectrum. Chow's grown up characters, most notably the ones he himself plays, act in many ways like children, while his children fill the opposite role. And there are enough smarts, formal attention, and cinematic references included in the overall zaniness to keep the arthouse snobs coming back. It might sound a little like I'm describing the Pixar regime, but (thankfully!) there's an essential difference between Chow's work and that steaming pile of pandering Disney crap. Pixar films play to the lowest common denominator through a diffuse self-censorship made up of market research, focus groups, and tested material. Stephen Chow's films, despite their whimsy, take a large amount of risk, as many of the jokes don't land, the effects are at times over-the-top, and even narrative flow is interrupted in the name of whatever greater cinematic awesomeness seems to fit at the time. Where Chow's recognizable themes are used to sell a formal--and often personal--cinematic vision, Disney's sale is not quite as noble.

But CJ7 doesn't succeed the way Shaolin Soccer and certainly Kung-Fu Hustle do. For one, there's a morality tale happening, structured something like an Aesop Fable, that is never reconciled with the story. A remarkable and hilarious Jiao Xu plays Dicky, the kid whose adherence to a working class ethical code is blown apart with the introduction of a high-tech toy. There are some beautiful (and funny) allusions to the corrosive nature of power, but ultimately the moral material, which was loaded on so thickly from the outset, is either lost to melodrama during the father's accident, or a messy plot wrap-up during CJ7's exit. As usual, though, Chow's best moments come when he detaches from a conventional structure (Ieaving Pixar in the dust), and uses the elements of film like a kid would a Lego set. The closet-to-galaxy sequence is incredible, part DirecTV commercial, another part Flight of the Navigator. Dicky's father's 12 by 12-foot shack in the junkyard is ridiculous yet picture perfect (All the shots are from overhead! There's literally nowhere to put the camera! Amazing..). But Chow's struggle with narrative reconciliation is a losing battle. The attempt to ground such playful segments like Dicky's fantasy victories into a kind of plot framework is futile, and what was hilarious a second before suddenly becomes jarring. As usual, the supporting cast is perfectly side-splitting, and in this case gold stars go to Shing-Cheung Lee's role as the pathetic Mr. Cao. Chow's move away from the ensemble conventions is in this case what muddles the film, though there's a touching personal story in there somewhere.

Maldeamores

[written for Global Nomads at http://www.janera.com/]

directed by Carlos Ruiz Ruiz and Mariem Pérez Riera
written by Jorge Gonzales and Carlos Ruiz Ruiz
Puerto Rico 2007

Three twisting love stories make up Maldeamores, the most recent offering from a small Caribbean island not exactly known for its film scene. The Puerto Rico Film Commission would like to see that notion changed, though. Boasting the largest tax incentive of any community in the Caribbean, the PR government offers a 40% break for producers of cinema, television, and original soundtracks. How wonderful it is, then, that the first project born of this new plan is about as native Puerto Rican as they get. First-timers Carlitos (as he's affectionately billed) Ruiz Ruiz, and wife Mariem Pérez Riera not only direct this gem but appear in a comical opening sequence, laden with the kind of subtextual angst that only a married duo could muster. A silly argument over gum quickly results in near catastrophe on a mountain highway. The film continues without the pair, and follows three unconventional love stories on different parts of the island. The film's title translates into English as "Lovesickness", but what this film brings is certainly not the kind of sappy sentimentality with which that word is usually associated. A better translation would probably be "sickness from love." This opening bit is just a taste of the struggles to come, and if the kind of dark humor that absolves jokes involving neck braces isn't your cup of café con leche, perhaps you'd better steer clear of this one.

In story one, we're introduced to a grieving family. Well, at least Lourdes (Teresa Hernández) is grieving over her recently passed grandmother. Her adolescent son (Fernando Tarrazo) struggles with his tears in the back seat, more interested in putting on a big front to impress a darling cousin. Lourdes' husband Ismael is played by the only recognizable actor in the ensemble, Luis Guzmán, a Hollywood mainstay and PR native. A usually vibrant Guzmán this time only blandly fills the role of the unfaithful Ismael, but the standout is easily the exchange between Ms. Hernández and Norman Santiago, who plays her brother-in-law Macho. Santiago's clumsy ne'er do well is as vacant as the sun-bleached neighborhood, and Lourdes' temper only shortens. The relative obscurity of this cast certainly doesn't affect its impact, though. Next up is easily the shining star of the vignettes, a septuagenarian love triangle that depicts a hilarious exchange between a saucy--yet sensible--old flirt, her curmudgeonly companion, and to complete the trifecta, the most cavalier of ex-husbands, a model of that smoothly benign Caribbean machismo. His 70 years of likeability are quite infectious, and this lovely triangle resolves itself extremely well despite the difficulties. Silvia Brito's Flora, through obvious faults of her own, finds herself in the middle of a battle for her highly regarded attentions. On one side is Cirilo (Chavita Marrero), the mean-tempered but endearing live-in mate of Flora's. On the other side is Miguel Ángel Álvarez's charming Pellín, his abject advances--despite decades of delinquency--are only justified when he asks Flora an interesting rhetorical question, "Have you ever considered the fact that we're all going to die?" Love and death, some would say, are the only two questions to ask. It's in these moments that the film takes leave of its comic lightness and breaks into more interesting territory. For young filmmakers, Ruiz and Riera are tackling some very sophisticated themes.

The third vignette continues on the theme of love and death. The story centers around a daily bus passenger, Miguel, played by Luis Gonzaga. Despite an overly attentive mother, his loneliness drives him to an obsession with Marta, the driver (Dolores Pedro), and a suicide attempt becomes a hostage situation. Fortunately, Ruiz and co-writer Jorge Gonzales keep things on the lighter side and the situation devolves into a kind of wedding. Love, death, and hostages. Ruiz and Riera certainly don't shy away from depicting the omnipresent Virgin Mary watching over the affairs in supremely Catholic Puerto Rico. Maybe we're all hostages when it comes to love, and perhaps the filmmakers are posing the question as to whether maybe the Virgin isn't better off?

Despite some clunks, the three narratives complement each other well. An adulterous man loves too much, a bus driver too little, and three elderly socialites reflect on lives that included a little of both. Eduardo Alegría's and Omar Silva's score is marvelous in its simplicity, the piano an artistic accent rather than an emotional cue. Ruiz, Riera, and cinematographer P.J. López again rein in the arthouse indulgence on the photographic style, instead opting for a realistic impressionism that highlights performance and drama over heavy-handed camera work. This style, though, allows for those small observational details to translate nicely into some beautiful, yet fleeting, visual moments. It's almost as if the photogenic Caribbean beauty can't help but escape into the frame. Though in a film that centers around love, death, and hostages, perhaps escape isn't such a surprising thing.

Paranoid Park

directed by Gus Van Sant
screenplay by Gus Van Sant
novel by Blake Nelson
France, USA 2007

What Gus Van Sant has done this time around is he's slightly shifted his main focus. Elephant, Last Days, and his more recent Paris, je t'aime segment are so interesting because they walk a fine line between familiarity and extreme strangeness. In 1942, Albert Camus imprisoned his "stranger" for a failure to assimilate, emotionally, thus removing him from the existential trap posed by the world. Van Sant has been positioning his own emotional strangers in what we would have assumed were familiar environments, and deliberately allowing them to remain, unbridled, until some inevitable natural dissonance. I'm seeing this latter phase as a transition from the formal ambitions of his earlier years to a more zen-like acceptance of the inconsistencies that represent a so-called "normal" life in the weirdness of today's upper middle class society. The past three releases have also seemed to drop that passionate devotion to the angst of youth in favor of a clinical indifference. This quiet, contemplative phase sees Van Sant exploring--rather than battling against--the strangeness. In PP, however, there's a return to that passion. What was strange for us in Elephant--the diverse social lives of children, confused sexual attractions, a world that literally comes in and out of focus--now helps to define main character Alex. Rather than holding up a carnival mirror, distorting the lives of children in order for a grown-up audience to understand the inconsistencies in their own lives, PP really invests in the worldview of Alex and his skater friends, while still pointing out that unnamable, universally frustrating dissonance.

Part of that frustration stems not from Alex's crisis of conscience (which throughout the film nicely serves as a moral weathervane, the old kind, where it's ambiguous which way it's actually pointing), but from the constant reminder that it's possible for rich white males to get away with murder. Detective Liu is sickeningly cordial with Alex. With no pressure from an interrogation, it's not surprising that he's able to breeze his way through the ordeal. In a world such as Larry Clark's, for instance, skaters are pushed around and dehumanized, while Gus Van Sant's counter-culture are treated with the kind of retroactive immunity popularized by today's corporate-controlled leadership. Have we reached the point where skating is finally an acceptable outlet for our children, rather than a dangerous sign of rebellion? One more subcultural trend transcending into the mainstream, perhaps.

While this kind of incongruity is happening, Van Sant follows, with a great degree of compassion, his youthful subjects. He and cinematographers Kathy Li and Christopher Doyle (my favorite; he's Wong Kar-wai's go-to guy) seem to enjoy spinning the rings on the lens, as this time not only the focus shifts, but the exposure as well. It's a nice touch, providing a kind of physical punctuation to color Alex's internal (and the audience's external) struggle. This photographic style is quite interesting in that it provides a visceral tension without the usual discordant music, jagged editing, disturbing content (although there is some of that included in one of the many flashback sequences), hand-held jumpiness, straight out of the textbook, etc. And speaking of flashback sequences, we're once again provided with an incongruity. The story being framed within Alex's own narrative, the question is posed as to why certain story elements have been included earlier and some later. I would argue the plot follows a familiar path from establishment and foreshadowing, through decision and complication, and finally to resolution. The question, then, is why would such an obviously novice writer choose to tell it in such a way? Perhaps the point is that we see our own lives in terms of plot structure, in a sort of an attempt to make sense out of the mess.

The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford

directed by Andrew Dominik
screenplay by Andrew Dominik
novel by Ron Hansen
USA 2007

One of the more interesting things about this film from sophomore writer-director Andrew Dominik is the narration. Actually many exciting moments come through here, despite its documentary style and a cadence reminiscent of a Sunday morning on National Public Radio. Far too description-y to forget it's there, this anachronism of voice-over contrasts with what seems to be the aim of most writers--to provide information as discreetly as possible. Conventional methods and Robert McKee steer us away from a pronounced narrator, but in Assassination the effect is more holistic than ever. In the appropriate fashion of 19th Century newspaper drama, there is an off-handedness that somehow passes judgment while remaining as close as is possible to the version of history most widely regarded as fact. Sounds like a tough task, but upon reflection is probably what many of those same newspaper writers dealt with as the Wild West died out. An idealistic sinkhole. The kind of mythos surrounding Jesse James and his exploits made for fine storytelling, but when the rest of society caught up to the frontier, the party was over. Bankers, industry men, and politicians weren't looking for exciting outlaw serials, they looked to the papers to tell them whether or not the James gang would conceivably be robbing their shipment.

But the poets are the unsung victims, even though they die along with their work. The next generation of writers and historians pay hardly a mention as their forefathers die out. A more important extinction, that of Jesse and his outlaw lifestyle, makes the front page weekly. Assassination sticks around during this stagnation and allows a glimpse into the pathetic lives of a few remaining gangsters, still trying to live the dream. Bob Ford at least, played with such perfect strangeness by Casey Affleck, is the only one to acknowledge the idea that he is living out a childhood myth. Brad Pitt is such a nice choice to play the other title role because he instantly provides megastar status, despite appearing as hollow and lifeless as is expected of Jesse James, legend of a bygone era. Even brother Frank, played by Sam Shepard, knows when to quit. When things start getting too lonesome even for Shepard, then, well...

As far as disintegration goes, though, it's an extremely watchable one. Humans act with survival in mind, and not only is the James gang fighting to survive the end of an era, we're reminded of another cornerstone of civilization. As these guys squabble, weasel each other out, lose interest, and altogether fall apart, the real beauty of the West shines through. Dominik can't help but mock the paltry posse of fur-clad deputies struggling their way through the snow. He can't help but force an exasperated Charley Ford over a precarious frozen lake. All the wonderfully physical aspects of the West are still here, and it resonates much longer than the death dance of human mythology.

Darkon

written and directed by Luke Meyer and Andrew Neel
USA 2006

Role Playing Games, on the level of Final Fantasy or WOW, allow players to assume control over a complex environment without the use of social skills. Sadly, success in the real world is almost entirely dependent on social interactions and politicking rather than intelligence and imagination. With a certain degree of brains and an inclination toward creative thought, you could easily become a Chess master, but even the most menial job requires a completely different skill set usually detected more in facial gestures than quality of work. The D and D phenomenon has, to millions of gamers around the world, provided a model of upward mobility for even the dullest and most awkward personalities. It's no secret, whether it's success merely over the Playstation or over legions of multi-players around the globe, RPG's empower the socially challenged. But LARPing (that is, Live Action Role Playing) is a completely different story. In Darkon, the subjects' obvious performing for the camera, usually such a detractor in documentary material, is moot. The Darkon experience is all about performance in the first place. Whether there's a camera or not, Lord Bannor would still be hamming it up for the armies of players around him. Also, quite explicitly stated, it takes politics to succeed in Darkon. War councils may convene, strategies devised, and battles planned, but usually it takes a backdoor deal with Elven mercenaries to muster a victory. It's an important point, because it sets LARPing apart by re-introducing a social requirement.

It's not surprising that many of these characters are so charismatic and well-spoken. This type of gaming attracts extroverts and natural performers. If you can't talk the talk in Darkon, you won't get a speaking role. Directors Luke Meyer and Andrew Neel present aspects on both sides of the reality divide, intertwining the lives of their subjects with their subjects' characters. But socially, which is the way most people understand their own lives anyway, aren't these two aspects on the same level? At a back table in Denny's, Skip tries to retain the loyalties of his Laconian countryman, but at the same time isn't he just trying to retain a friendship? The Darkon event footage, including camp-outs, battles, and meetings, provides the same character information as the interviews at work and home. The most interesting departure from these character sketches are the staged sequences of the Darkon story, where the gamers are so completely ingrained in performance, and the real attraction to Role Playing is evident.

I can't help but see an allegory here. An offshoot of the intelligentsia that has pioneered gaming from its humble days of Chess and Backgammon to an MMO RPG empire, LARPing is the exploitative and power-hungry next generation. It is propagated by the movers and shakers and by the politicians. One Laconian puts it bluntly, "..that real world mentality keeps coming back. To be better than somebody else..." Those who can play the political game enjoy success in Darkon. Those with actual intelligence are largely forgotten in favor of likeability, charisma, and brute force. It's much like the capitalist democracy we deal with on a daily basis. Ralph Nader and the citizen advocates are either smeared or disenfranchised by the silver-tongued Party politicians. NGOs and established intellectually-based environmental organizations are silenced by George Bush and his puppet policy-making agencies on issues like peak oil and global warming. In the realm of Darkon and all over the real world, smooth talkers silence the meek with the power of social skills. And also much like the rest of the world, the decision makers of Darkon are usually men, they are usually short-sighted, and they are usually white.

Gone Baby Gone

directed by Ben Affleck
screenplay by Ben Affleck and Aaron Stockard
novel by Dennis Lehane
USA 2007

For whatever it's worth, let's not forget the guy's an academy award winner. Though it has been buried by years of so many completely ridiculous performances and juicy off-screen tabloidery, Good Will Hunting was a timely, intelligent, and tasteful piece of writing that should at least be recognized as an exciting offering by a couple of future super-celebs. Also let's not forget the obvious brains behind the Askewniverse roles. His inclusion in the Hollywood silliness self-awareness campaign of Kevin Smith (i.e. "...Affleck was the bomb in Phantoms.") at least belies Entertainment Tonight's cookie cutter version of the adorable but intellectually irrelevant leading man. So upon closer review of the evidence, perhaps a solid and smart directorial debut for Ben Affleck is not so drastically surprising. In fact, I don't think I'm the only one who had some inkling of curiosity as to when this lug would deliver on some of these vague promises.

Gone Baby Gone is not without its shortcomings, but there's a unique message that slowly builds a case as each new piece of tainted evidence comes to light. Young and attractive Patrick and Angie watch the neighborhood crisis on TV, a step removed from the world just outside their doorway. A shameless and domestically challenged Helene spits venom at her sister-in-law, and Patrick and Angie's underlying relationship tensions are like a drop in the ocean of trouble that is blue-collar Boston (or any city, for that matter). Angie, in another nice directorial touch, is deftly pushed aside for the entire first half of the movie, until she explodes past the men, over a hundred-foot cliff to certain peril. Ineffectual masculine power struggles are easily blown apart by the raw passion of the fairer sex. It's here that the film changes, and as Patrick becomes caught in a torrent of harsh difficulties, something in the filmmaking itself feels wrong. There are recognizable genre elements, but certain plot details become unimportant, while others are seemingly forgotten. Patrick slowly picks his way through the mess, and likewise the plot eventually makes sense out of the strangeness. In contrast to the Coens' No Country for Old Men, for instance, where we have a cohesive and meticulously formulated plot carrying us through the difficult intellectual material, GBG instead nearly falls to pieces in its construction of a similarly alienating environment.

In the end, Patrick champions the working class against the meddling upper-echelons. But in this case it's not a case of corporate exploitation, or any such Moore-ian social injustice. Affleck and novelist Dennis Lehane (also the author of Mystic River) have embedded an indictment of that same working class. What a statement! To boot, there are overtones of the fate vs. free will argument. Very nice. Lastly, Amy Ryan's portrayal of Helene is wicked. Only a serious commitment to a view of the world from the bottom up could have produced such righteous selfishness. It must have been a terrifying experience.