We Are What We Are: On Chloe Zhao's "Songs My Brothers Taught Me"

On the receiving end of widespread acclaim with her latest film "Nomadland", it would behoove anyone interested in Chloe Zhao as a developing filmmaker to visit her feature length debut, "Songs My Brothers Taught Me". As a filmmaker wholly interested in presenting complex stories of individualistic wandering among a community rarely experienced on-screen, all of these tenets are present from the get go.

Like she did with her sophomore film "The Rider" (2018), "Songs My Brothers Taught Me" takes place with people mostly portraying themselves.... or at least thinly veiled fictional recreations of themselves. And it wouldn't be far off to wonder if that later film didn't rise out of the barren-land ashes of this film as Zhao's camera often becomes much more interested in the rodeo bucking community that fraternally rubs against her Indian reservation-set debut. But regardless of its foundations, "Songs My Brothers Taught Me" is an amazing film for the way it never seems to be in a rush of narrative. Things happen and great developmental arcs occur, but the film just captures a sense.... a time... and a place with generous acuity.

The story that eventually develops involves teenager John (Johnny Reddy) and his twelve year old sister Jashaun (Jashaun St. John) who live on a South Dakota Indian reservation. In the first few minutes, we learn their licentious father has died in an accident. It bothers the two siblings, but the film isn't about their sadness over his death. Instead, we observe as they figure out who they want to become in life. John is involved with a local girl (Taysha Fuller) and their amorous plans to leave town together loom. Meanwhile, young Jashaun observes her brother's burgeoning adulthood from outside, eventually becoming friends with her heavily tattooed stepbrother (one of about 19 children from her father around town), freshly released from prison and battling to stay afloat in a world that constantly offers little escape.

Beyond that, "Songs My Brothers Taught Me" is a mood thing. Zhao often frames the activity around the reservation in long shot, allowing for streaks of lightning to cascade in the background or curtains of sunset light to bathe the screen. The mixture of nature and man- that is so prevalent in all her work- gets first attention here. It's a beautifully rendered atmosphere for John and Jashaun to bounce around this big sky country with dour, internalized permutations of angst and unsuredness. We feel for them because although they reside in a place largely foreign to my experience, the emotions and depth of confusion in growing up are universal. Zhao seems to excel in creating these types of stories and I look forward to following her long and beautiful career.

DVD Shout Out- Oslo, August 31

The cinema landscape is full of recovering addict stories- some are languid and woozy (no pun intended) while others focus on the post recovery stages of admittance and penance. In Joachem Trier's "Oslo, August 31", we meet Anders (Anders Danielsen Lie) in a depressed state. One of the opening images shows him filling his jacket pockets with rocks and feebly attempting to drown himself. He, and the film, are clearly not in either aforementioned stage of recovery. Anders returns to his rehab house and prepares himself for a day of leave in which he has a job interview set up. From there, the camera dutifully embeds on his shoulders as he visits old friends and haunts, leaves regretful phone messages to an ex-girlfriend and nervously tries to avoid slipping back into his habitual routines.

Joachem Trier's sophomore film is spectacular for the way in which it takes an ordinary subject and weaves a devastating tale. It's also a very personal film. It's not long into the film that Trier adds voice overs of unnamed people recalling the various pleasurable memories of growing up in Oslo, Norway. It feels like an old fashioned novel as memories marry against the image of a bustling but quaint cityscape. And into this city ventures Anders. We desperately pull for Anders to come out unscathed from his inner demons. He's not a bad person.... he's just incredibly confused and damaged. He first meets up with an old friend, now happily married and domesticated with children. They take a walk and the friend senses some inner turmoil in Anders. Anders refuses a beer and we cheer a little. Next, he shows up to his job interview, but self destructs when the managing editor begins to inquire about the few missing years in his portfolio. It's at this point that "Oslo, August 31" turns a bit darker in its voyage with Anders. He shows up a party and makes a move on an old girlfriend. She rebukes him and the heavy drinking starts. He leaves with another old friend to go bar hopping. Here, he connects with a beautiful college student and they all end up, at dawn, skinny dipping in a pool. Anders sits on the edge of the pool, the young girl urging him to come in, that "Oslo, August 31" reaches a fever-pitch of psychological tension. I was basically screaming at the image, imploring Anders to jump into the pool with the girl (Ingrid Olava) and detour his highwire act of sobriety versus addiction. But, writer-director Trier has other elements in mind. Like the melancholy voice overs earlier in the film, happiness is such a fleeting gesture.

DVD Shout Out: It's Kind of a Funny Story

There are always those films that slip the cracks, and for me, Ryan Fleck and Anna Boden's "It's Kind of A Funny Story" is one of them. Arriving and disappearing from theaters in the blink of an eye last year,I can assuredly say that if I had seen it earlier, it would have surely ranked pretty high on my official list of the best of the year.

Fleck and Boden have amassed an incredible track record of piercing films, from the indie drama "Half Nelson" to the acutely moving minor league baseball saga known as "Sugar". So I suppose it really comes as no surprise that they hit another home run here with this modest, affectionate and sweetly engrossing film starring Keir Gilchrist as a somewhat depressed (but mostly stressed out) student who checks himself into a mental hospital and ends up helping everyone else more than himself. It all sounds horribly cliched, and there are a few moments of Wes Anderson-like whimsy in the first half that threaten to engulf the narrative, but "It's Kind of a Funny Story" also hits such high notes of honesty and cathartic energy between its characters that it comes off as something more.

And then comes this scene:



... and from there on I was hooked. Emma Roberts, the suicidal teenager who forms a relationship with Craig (Gilchrest), doesn't formulate a role full of nervous ticks or emo irrationality. It's a very human performance. And that's the real beauty of the film, which is based on the acclaimed autobiographical novel by Ned Vizzini. Even though the central setting is a mental ward and the jokes could be simple jabs at insanity, each charatcer is developed with warmth, humor and depth. There's the weird, but ultimately charming, way in which a fellow patient named Johnny (Adrian Martinez) whispers "Johnny don't phone kiss" at the end of a telephone call.... or the immense performance by Zach Galifianakis as the man who quickly befriends Craig. While the film never specifically spells out his troubles or the outcome of his problems, Galifianakis portrays Bobby as someone caught in the downward spiral of life with little idea of how to stop-gap the issues. Again, its a very human performance that displays humor, rage and complete understanding.

With a soundtrack by Broken Social Scene and Fleck/Boden's natural instinct for editing and camera movement- i.e. a glorious tracking shot down a hospital hallway as Gilchrest and Roberts try to find their way to the roof or a strong cut to her face as she blows away an eyelash he's just removed from her face- "It's Kind of a Funny Story" should not have gotten lost in the Holiday season rush last year. It's a distinct pleasure.

DVD Shout Out: I'm Gonna Explode

Gerardo Naranjo's "I'm Gonna Explode" is an apt title.... a film about the turbulent angst that builds in all of us during our teenage years and eventually leaks out in destructive or passive-aggressive ways. For Naranjo's two young lovers, Roman (Juan Pablo Santiago) and Maru (Maria Deschamps), life is almost unbearable and they beat up a security guard, steal a gun, and hide out on the roof of Roman's wealthy father's mansion, playing games with their families below and imagining themselves against the adult world. Things do turn tragic, but Naranjo takes his time getting there, building up an elusive tone that stands as a brash examination of youth, bracketed by the indie music of Bright Eyes and a bit of Georges Delerue which adds a dimension of fatalism to the entire thing.



Naranjo isn't a newcomer to the indie scene. His previous feature "Drama/Mex", which I haven't seen, made some waves in the critical waters. His addition to Azazel Jacobs' wonderful "The GoodTimeskid" included acting, writing and shooting that film. Watching "I'm Gonna Explode", I get the feeling of a major emerging talent, much like I did with Cary Fukunaga and "Sin Nombre". Both are films that gently crest in and out of French new wave influences with modern sensibilities and attitudes about youth. They both look incredible as well.

It's easy to get swept up in the 'screw-you' contempt for anyone adult in "I'm Gonna Explode", but Naranjo molds Maru and Roman as deceptively smarter than that. With both sets of their families worrying in the house beneath them, they play act on the roof, Roman being the more abrupt of the two and Maru along for the ride with her exciting new boyfriend. Maru seems to understand when playtime is over, but its Roman who doesn't want it to end. As Godard said, all you need to make a movie is a girl and a gun, and Naranjo holds to that credo in true nouvelle vague fashion.

Independent Gaze: Azazel Jacobs' The GoodTimesKid

Filmmaker Azazel Jacobs (son of pioneer avant garde filmmaker Ken Jacobs) only has two films under his belt, yet his unique way of dealing with whimsical romanticism and mid life crisis are achingly real. His debut film, "The GoodTimes Kid", completed in 2005 and given a cozy (i.e. very limited) release in 2006, succeeds in spite of its art-house pretensions... which is to say it's full of unbroken long takes and a distinctively muted emotionalism that lingers in the mind far longer than expected.

Opening with a case of mistaken identity, Rodolfo Cano (Gerardo Naranjo) receives a letter stating his application to the army has been accepted. He shows up to the recruiting office and observes the other Cano (played by Jacobs himself) before following him home. Curious as to this other Rodolfo's life, he knocks on the door and, mid raging fury at her boyfriend's passive dismissal of her, meets the girlfriend, Diaz. Played with deceptive sexiness and charm by Sara Diaz, she's a gangly, magnetic screen presence highly reminiscent of a Latina Olive Oil (which has to be some sort of inspiration). After settling down and a messy bout of refrigerator punching, Diaz and the new Rodolfo strike up an almost non-verbal relationship that lasts through the night and into the next day.

Jacobs paints his portrait of this floating trio with a stunning sense of connectedness. The influence of Cassavetes is tactile. At once playful via its long takes and body language comedy, "The GoodTimesKid" veers into honest realism on a dime. When the two Rodolfo's eventually meet, the battle for the heart of Diaz is not won by fists (although there is a hilarious scuffle that begins and ends abruptly) but through a touching walk down the street at night and the spurned Rodolfo recalling how scared he was the first time he saw Diaz. Just like a previous scene where the new Rodolfo and Diaz connect in the dark with a flashlight illuminating their grinning faces, Jacobs is clearly not afraid to allow the uneasy messiness of life to shine through in quiet moments.


Closing with an act of self sacrifice, "The GoodTimesKid" naturally segues into Jacobs' second film, "Momma's Man". Gone is the loopy attitude around new found attraction. It's replaced with a bout of mid-life crisis where husband and new father Mike (Matt Boren) visits his parents in New York, then finds himself afraid to leave his childhood home. "Momma's Man" is the film where the youthful revolutionaries of "The GoodTimesKid" are forced to grow up. I had the misfortune to watch these films in reverse- with "Momma's Man" being a respectable but average view over a year ago while "The GoodTimesKid" was a lightning bolt experience last week. It's safe to say Jacobs is a filmmaker whose cinema of loneliness, anxiety and anger complement each other in mysterious ways. And the final image of "The GoodTimesKid", with Diaz slowly absorbing the action taken by the new Rodolfo and filmed with an unwavering three minute static shot as a source tune by Gang of Four echoes over the image, is haunting in more ways than one. Facing the future, the expression of confusion and bewilderment on her face exemplifies that maybe, just maybe, we'll get a later film that dares to explore what happens to her after this. In Jacobs' seemingly connected universe, it's only fair.

A Haunting Final Few Minutes- Frontier of Dawn

Caution, this post deals in explicit spoilers.

French filmmaker Phillipe Garrel has every right to replay the feelings and emotional complications he surely experienced during France in the 1960's. His well documented affairs with high profile beauties (namely singer and avant garde artist Nico) have been the foundation for several films now, including his latest "Frontier of Dawn". Starring his son, Louis Garrel, the film is a mood piece that languishes in black and white cinematography and dreamy pieces of mind as Louis first falls in love with an actress named Carole (Laura Smet) then another woman (Clementine Poidatz) when that relationship dissolves under jealousy and a stint in an insane asylum for the volatile Carole. Like most 'amour fou' tales, "Frontier of Dawn" deals in sudden shifts of emotion with little back story. There are hints of Carole's troubled past as possible ex-lovers show up on her doorstep at 1am in the morning, or in the way she openly flirts with another man at a dinner party in front of Louis, but the progression from sour love to electro shock therapy seem few and rushed. In most of Garrel's work, he's clearly battling with the bitter loss of loved ones (see his 1991 film "I Can No Longer Hear the Guitar" which is a ponderous exploration of relationships), and for the most part of "Frontier of Dawn", Louis Garrel gets to swagger around beautiful women and photograph them as if he's in a Calvin Klein commercial, which is supposed to quantify a tortured existence I suppose.


In essence, it's your usual French love story! But after Carole is released from her stay in a mental hospital, she goes off the deep end, drinks a fifth of vodka and overdoses on pills. Louis moves on with his life, this time with Eve, a dramatically different type of girl than Carole. Brunette, unworldly and motherly, she soon announces she's carrying his baby, in which the spoiled Louis bracingly states that "I can't have a child". Eve breaks into a fit of crying, in which Louis embraces her and apologizes, wherein they move to her country estate house and meet the family. If one looks like Louis Garrel, I guess he can verbally gut punch a woman and get away with it.


If my subtle contempt for "Frontier of Dawn" is shining through, then point taken. With the exception of "Regular Lovers", I've never been that much a fan of Garrel's insipid personal love tales. But in "Frontier of Dawn", it's only after the death of Carole and the seemingly comfortable family harmony that Louis settles into that the film morphs into something interesting. While getting up in the middle of the night, Louis finds himself speaking to the image of Carole in a bathroom mirror. She tells him she still loves him. He listens. It's here, in the final five or six minutes, that Garrel reaches at something striking. Is this simply guilt on Louis' part for abandoning Carole when she needed him the most? Or has Garrel pushed himself past the facile gestures of young love and tapped into something primordial?


Like the best of Kiyoshi Kurosawa or Jacques Tournier, "Frontier of Dawn" transforms into a horror story where atmosphere and static camera shots infuse a sense of dread into everything. For the first time, Garrel is punishing his playboy leading man- and ultimately himself- for leading a whimsical, care free existence. Louis just listens to the reflection of Carole, leaning on the sink, all the weight giving out of his body. It's a brave move, made all the more horrifying by what comes next. The image of Carole talks him into joining her, wherein Louis (off screen) jumps out the window. Cut back to the mirror where this image slowly blurs into view:


Make what you will of it, but this ending completely shifted my perception of the entire film. Meta-cinematic to the nines, I have to quietly applaud Garrel for peeling away the brutish exteriors of his psyche and going here, essentially formalizing and visualizing guilt in such a tactile way. We all have moments in our lives that are embarrassing or shameful... moments we wish we could take back... relationships we wished had ended in different ways... or people we hurt. "Frontier of Dawn" confronts these moments in their good times and their bad, and its an apt title for a film that steps up to a precipice and dares to look into the past with unflinching honesty.

Cinema Obscura: Lion's Den

Pablo Trapero's "Lion's Den" is a unique prison picture. Formatted virtually around the hard (but equally beautiful) face of actress Martina Gusman, the film is an unrelenting portrait of a woman confined to harsh surroundings desperately clinging to a small strand of real life. That slice of real life happens to be her baby boy, who she gives birth to in prison. The 'lion's den' in question is an Argentine prison that Julia (Gusman) is sent to after an oblique and sparsely explained opening crime. Placed in an all-female ward, Julia soon finds out she's pregnant and moved to a section of the prison where the inmates roam freely, breastfeeding their children and walking them to kindergarten. The law is that the children stay with their mothers in prison until the age of four. Trying to appeal her sentence, Julia soon encounters other forces outside her control that threaten to take her child away. Detailing the squalor of the prison with an unflinching gaze and perfectly timed long takes, "Lion's Den" expresses a ferociously moving point of view, none more so than the primal emotion that emerges from Julia when her son is initially taken away from her. It's a magnificent performance from Gusman, made all the more poignant by the way Trapero documents the children playing inside the prison, swinging on the bars and disappearing behind locked doors that echo with a loud thud as if they were mingling on a playground.

Watching "Lion's Den" just a day after seeing Lucretia Martel's masterful "The Headless Woman" makes for an interesting double bill. Both films, made by Argentine filmmakers, tackle a specific theme with brilliance and sure hands. And both films present women in peril (physical and psychological) with an unwavering sensibility that seems lost in most other films. While Martel's lead woman falls into a state of amnesia after (possibly) murdering someone, Trapero's punished woman claws and scratches with all her life, burning with the memory of her child to keep herself sane and focused on the goal of eventual release. Both women take divergent paths, yet both films analyze sections of Argentine life that rarely receive any attention. "Lion's Den" ranks very high with the prison picture as a genre (made by a man or woman) and it deserves to be seen. The most harrowing message, though, lies in the quiet scenes of the children lingering behind bars. The mother committed the crimes, but the children are paying for them.

DVD Shout Out: Sugar

If Ron Shelton's "Bull Durham" is the comedic take on life in the minor leagues, then "Sugar" levels off and presents something a bit more realistic... where getting to "the show" is a daily grind that seems to crush the life out of every wanna-be major leaguer. But in hindsight, Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck's intimate portrait of Sugar Santos (Algenis Perez Soto) and his search for a spot on a professional roster is less about baseball and certainly more about the compounding confusions that overwhelm a non-English speaking immigrant plopped down in the middle of America. And isn't that what the greatest sports movies do? Which is to say they present grand human emotions and self discovery against the ordinary facade of competitive sportsmanship. "The Natural" and "Tin Cup" says more about growing old than "Grumpy Old Men". And dare I even mention "Hoop Dreams" which packs more truth in every frame than any NBA game shown on television. "Sugar" deserves to be mentioned in that rare category of a sports film that tells a universal story with subtle flare and a discerning eye for the details in life.

As "Sugar", Perez Soto is a quiet force. From the opening, where we see him bounce back and forth from an American run baseball camp in the Dominican Republic to his cluttered small town and large family, we're immediately on this guy's side. With a searching camera that zooms and darts back and forth, rarely missing a small detail or change in some one's eyes, "Sugar" embarks on an unexpected ride as Sugar is signed to the minor leagues, shuttled to Iowa where he lives with a very white-bred family and deals with the pressures of everyday life in the minors. Submerging the viewer into the same disorienting experience that Sugar feels here- including a revealing long take as he walks through the lobby of a hotel and into a loud video arcade- directors Fleck and Boden make sure their film slowly evolves into a character study of unique proportions. Then, the rug is pulled out from underneath us and the film's third act takes a compelling avenue that sorta creates the magical effect of the overall film. The relationships that Sugar forms and the coda, where real life immigrant players speak directly to the camera and say their names and drafted teams, etch out a beautifully realized film about life on the edges of a dream.

With their previous film "Half Nelson", Boden and Fleck have risen to the top as strong independent filmmakers who document messy, complicated lives in flux. There wasn't a single mis-step in that debut film with Ryan Gosling as a drug addicted teacher trying to reach bright student Shareeka Epps. Fleck and Boden have a knack for subverting expectations in conflicts, and the moment where Gosling approaches drug dealer Anthony Mackie plays out in the opposite manner in which we expect. Likewise, in "Sugar", Santos falls for the religious daughter (Ellary Porterfield) of the family he's staying with and their relationship develops in awkwardly truthful ways as well. There's also the great moment in "Sugar" where he and his girlfriend meet a friend on the corner and we learn he used to pitch for the Yankees minor league system. Fleck and Boden's camera catches a glean in his eye before he averts his look down to the ground and a flush of remorse covers his expression. Whether that moment is scripted or not, Fleck and Boden wisely capture these glimmers of human nature with ease. For the entire running time of "Sugar", it also feels like they've captured human nature in motion.

Bonus: the stirring scene in "Half Nelson" where Epps makes a drug delivery to a hotel room and discovers her teacher's private life, told in sound, image and utterly honest eye contact.

On How A Four Star Review Changed My Mind

I suppose it's either the death rattle death of newspapers or a weary reaction to the dog days of summer, but professional film critics are going for the jugular lately. First, there was Jeffrey Wells and his angry post about the slow decline of Kathryn Bigelow's "The Hurt Locker" when it comes to selling tickets to the younger film-going demographic. Glenn Kenny and Drew McWeeney then jumped into the fray. Then most recently, Roger Ebert jumped into the ring against film critic Armond White when he trashed (and apparently pissed on) the new fan-boy favorite, "District 9".

On the first point, I saw "The Hurt Locker" over a month ago and didn't utter a peep about it because I seem to be the only one on the planet (besides White of course) who feels it isn't a masterpiece. Solid, yes. Three stars, yes. But it meanders in the end a bit much and does revel in some awfully pedestrian cliches at times. Still, after so many quality films die a quiet death at the box office or find life on home video or in repertory screenings, why is "The Hurt Locker" now the branding iron for such a strong push of the under appreciated? Secondly, on the Ebert/White fracas, let me first say I'm no fan of White. Ever since film criticism from outside my limited scope was made available on the web in the mid 90's, I gravitated towards the New York and Chicago critics- Sarris, Hoberman, Taubin, Rosenbaum and Wilmington. There was something electric about their writings- and certainly the fact that they were pontificating on so many films I wouldn't see for years played into my appreciation. I soon stumbled upon the alternative New York paper, the New York press. While Matt Zoller Seitz quickly became a favorite (and still thrives today), I also discovered Armond White and found him shitting on so many films I liked. A train wreck relationship formed. I despised his reviews, but couldn't stop reading them. A humorous side note: a fellow online buddy who I used to communicate with regularly in New York e-mailed me one day with the lines "I just shared an elevator with your favorite critic." My reply- "Did you kick him in the shins?" The Ebert/White duel has been entertaining, to say the least. And, it will probably get me to the theater to see just what all the fuss is about. I'm sure the production company is grateful for the critical misunderstanding.

All of this to say that, yes, even though "print" is dying, the blogs and twitter and technology (the invisible print, I suppose) still reign supreme and are continuing to evolve and expand a film's reputation through the now omniscient viral means. Sometimes, this is good. I do take a critic's words into consideration- a perfect example being that I'm still very tempted by the slow murmur of positive buzz for David Twohy's "A Perfect Getaway". And, it certainly happened earlier this year when Ebert wrote a virtually singular praise for Alex Proyas' "Knowing", and then followed it up a few days later with an even deeper analysis of the film's conceits on his blog. I read both of them with a "wtf" kind of feeling. I know Ebert loves his sci-fi tales (look no further than his unabashed love for "Dark City"), but this was "Knowing" starring (gasp) Nicholas Cage and released in late February with very little traction. All of this came back as I held the movie in my hand and decided to give it a shot. Admittedly, it's not quite a four star movie, but pretty damn close.... a film full of scary ideas done with just the right touch of humanity to make the characters somebody you root for and with one helluva nice (uncompromising) ending that certainly made the test audiences squirm in their seats.


Apocalypse movies rarely feature this many strong ideas. The room for large scale disaster is firmly intact (especially in one outstanding set-piece that follows Cage through a fresh plane crash with one long unbroken steadicam shot), but its the collision of philosophical gestures and human sacrifice that really make "Knowing" a cut above the rest. Proyas' predilection for dark, shadowy figures do turn up here with an increasingly creepy frequency. Add a dash of mysticism and some 'un-blockbusterly' third act surprises, and one gets a very satisfying movie that I might have overlooked if it weren't for the fearless critique by Roger Ebert. I suppose Armond White has the same effect for someone else when they decide to rent "Death Race". I'll still read all the above mentioned critics... I'll just pay much closer attention to some.

DVD Shout Out: The Education of Charlie Banks

Most of the energy surrounding "The Education of Charlie Banks" will be focused on the fact that it's directed by Fred Durst. Yes, that Fred Durst- the singer of Limp Bizkit fame who once echoed immortal and sage lines such as "I did it all for the nookie, so you can take that cookie, and stick it up your ass." Regardless of that, "The Education of Charlie Banks" is still a very good movie about class differences while managing to heighten and draw out the subtle tension between Charlie (Jesse Eisenberg) and old school bully/friend Mick (Jason Ritter, son of John).


The story- one that could have stumbled into cliche territory yet remains fresh and original- begins sometime in the 1970's in Greenwich village as the aforementioned Charlie meets bad-boy Mick. Soon after seeing Mick beat a fellow student within an inch of his life, the bookish and morally upright Charlie tells the cops on Mick. He soon after recants his admission. While at college several years later, Mick shows up and slowly insinuates himself back into Charlie's life, taking up with the girl he likes and generally upending Charlie's literate and wealthy circle of friends. The pressing question (and one that writer Peter Elkoff and director Durst expand to terrifying lengths during Mick's re-occurrence at the Ivy League school) is whether Mick is aware of Charlie's "rat" status or not. Still, the impending collision between Charlie and Mick is handled with confidence, allowing "The Education of Charlie Banks" to work itself out as a low key character study.



As Charlie, Eisenberg is quickly becoming typecast as the 'new nebbish'. He does seem tailor made for the role ever since "The Squid and the Whale", but its Jason Ritter who really lifts the film. Full of charisma and taking some scenes into completely unexpected territory, he has massive potential. As for Durst the filmmaker, I suppose it would be unfair to say he does nothing to screw up the proceedings. Simply shot and cleanly edited, there are a few recognizable moments of talent behind the camera.... one of them being a slow zoom into the outside of a library as Charlie runs inside, looking for the girl he has a crush on as the camera stays outside, continuing its slow zoom until he re-emerges and runs off screen. Not only is it a visual flourish that's unique, but it preserves the sense of desperate longing surely felt by Banks. Overall, "The Education of Charlie Banks" is a great surprise.

Regional Review: The Whole Shootin' Match

The story of Eagle Pennell is a truly tragic one, yet we can always find beauty and redemption in the archived work of a filmmaker (justly) coming to light. After IFC snuck Pennell's 1984 film "Last Night At the Alamo" into their lackluster rotation a few months back, I feel privileged to have seen two Eagle films now. His second film, "The Whole Shootin Match", released in 1978, has been credited as the film that encouraged Robert Redford to launch the Sundance Film Festival. And I can't imagine a better film to watch on a hot July Texas night when it's still 95 degrees at 11pm.


Like most of his characters, Lloyd (Lou Perryman) and Frank (Sonny Carl Davis) are decent southern boys constantly trying to carve a niche for themselves amongst their nights of chasing women and drinking. In "The Whole Shootin' Match", Lloyd and Sonny fare much better than the layabouts in "Last Night At the Alamo", though to be fair, that film is strictly about one night in the life of a closing Houston bar and its denizens. Lloyd is an especially inventive guy, continually creating things out of PVC pipe and metal in his backyard. Yet in his customary fatalistic world-view, Pennell chooses to end this stroke of good luck as a corporate fast-one. The good 'ol boys are taken for a ride and lose out on their patent for a mop by a shady downtown Austin businessman who blinds the guys with a wad of quick cash- cash that Sonny quickly wastes on a suit and convertible. While a small part of the film documents the duo's brave attempts to scratch out a living on the fringes of society, the real gist of the film is their lazy interaction with each other and the women in Sonny's life. While this aspect of the film is highly entertaining and Pennell scribbles out some intently hilarious conversations between these two slow-drawl guys, "The Whole Shootin' Match" is (to me) a much more valuable commodity for its anthropological take on Texas in the mid 70's.

Filmed in and around Austin, Pennell frames a bit of his film in the concrete jungle of downtown Austin (as the previously mentioned scene where the guys sell their idea and get taken) but the majority of its setting is the hinterlands of south central Texas. Largely anonymous dirt roads, backyards and darkened highways, Pennell does evoke a serene beauty during the film's final images of the guys wandering in the clustered hills west of Austin. The clash between good 'ol boy nature and hippie central (Austin, well noted, is known as the most liberal city in Texas) is touched on as well during a scene where the guys attempt to kickstart a new polyuerthane business on a unique house in the Austin hills. Whether he means to or not, Pennell conveys alot about the clash of personalities in his films. More sure of himself in the hazy interactions between drinking buddies than fully realized relationships, "The Whole Shootin Match" does give ample screentime to Sonny's wife (a wonderful Doris Hargrave) and her slow attraction to Sonny's cousin (Eric Henshaw) in scenes that come off funny and real. The act of giving a bicycle to Sonny's young son squeezes alot of mileage out of its simple plot point. Pennell condenses alot of personality in conversations and "The Whole Shootin' Match" is a film full of them.


A poignant footnote to my viewing of "The Whole Shootin' Match" was certainly overshadowed by the news of actor Lou Perryman's death just a month or so after this film's DVD release and the virtual excitement being stirred by Pennell's maverick filmmaker status. Watching the scenes towards the end of "The Whole Shootin Match" as Lloyd and Frank dutifully search for lost gold in the hills, yet another unfulfilled get-rich-quick scheme in their never-resting-minds, I kept coming back to the image above as Lou rests on the downslope of a hill with a large tree blotting out the sky behind him. If ever there was a more glorious image of a man at peace with nature, this is it. Again, whether he meant to or not, Pennell and alter-ego Lou Perryman delve into the beauty of the Texas lanscape with a singular feeling for what makes this great state so breathtaking at times.

70's Bonanza: The Taking Of Pelham 123

The rising tide of emotion over Tony Scott's remake of Joseph Sargent's "The Taking Of Pelham 123" is reaching the climactic cry of "why"? There are its admirers and certainly its detractors (plus more harsh words). As an unabashed Tony Scott fan, I'll certainly give it a look, aware of its tricked up cinematography and amplified square off between a goateed, menacing John Travolta and a subdued Denzel Washington. This is not the original... a film which deserves its rightful place in 70's cinema as a hard-edged, no nonsense hostage film that looks even trendier today than I'm sure the grit and grime of 1970's New York did upon initial release.

For anyone who says director Joseph Sargent provided a "workmanlike" effort on "The Taking of Pelham 123" needs to look a little closer. From the opening exterior shots of the hostage-takers silently assembling in the subway station to that sublime and impeccably humorous final freeze frame, Sargent's film is wrapped in auterist moments. Take also the first (and last) images of criminal ringleader Robert Shaw, introduced through tapping, impatient feet in a subway station and ending on a self destructive tap of the shoes on the underground electric track. With the exception of the tracking shot that follows a cat into a dark doorway, up to a pair of shoes, and eventually to the half-hidden face of Orson Welles in Carol Reed's "The Third Man" as he picks up the cat, I can't think of a more inventive introduction to a main character through an almost throwaway moment. Great stuff. And back to Shaw himself. As the good guy transit detective, Walter Matthau does his lumbering best to imbue every scene with the world-weary nonchalance that made him famous, and it's a harmonious collision when he and Shaw finally begin communicating through the train's radio. Decisive, intelligent, well organized and brutally efficient, Shaw creates a purely evil bad guy out of (basically) thin air. It's always the icy, quiet person who embarks on the killing rampage, and Shaw embodies Mr. Blue as a man who never raises his voice but gets exactly what he wants. It's an understated performance, but one that grows on you with repeat viewings. Here's a well-drawn villain because we understand everything has been planned down to the inch. With preparation like that, it's all tone of voice and steely gaze and Shaw carries it out with perfection.

Then there's the tension generated by the film. There's little action- one car chase that ends just as quickly as it begins and sporadic gun fire- yet "The Taking Of Pelham 123" carves its place in the niche of 70's cinema alongside other thrillers (paranoid or otherwise) that understands atmosphere, acting, pacing and dialogue are the keys to success. With their limited screen time, Jerry Stiller, Martin Balsam, Hector Elizondo and Dick O' Neill resonate long after their supporting turns as guys trapped on both sides of the hostage crisis. And then there's that final scene.... intriguing because we don't expect Sargent and screenwriter Peter Stone to fully evolve the story beyond the actual titular action. But they do. And it lands on that cat-like grin of Walter Matthau as his long day comes to an end. With that, "The Taking Of Pelham 123" immediately re-assesses itself as a study of good overpowering evil. In it's small way, New York City is saved again.

Cinema Obscura: TimeCrimes

Nacho Vigalondo's "TimeCrimes" made a small splash in cult cinema circles last year, most notably from its inclusion in Fantastic Fest hosted by Ain't It Cool News. Granted, anytime a small independent film chooses as its subject time travel, the accolades come hard and fast due to the film's scruffy, intellectualized subject (see "Primer" from a few years'a go... a film whose praise was lost on me after finally seeing the film's baffling concept. It was filmed in Dallas though) But Vigalondo's film does deserve the praise. Visually unoriginal (since it was filmed for Spanish TV), "TimeCrimes" relies on a twisting, highly original idea to carry the film for its brisk but near perfect 95 minutes. I suppose if you think too hard on the film's structure, a few plot holes exist her and there. But really, what time travel idea isn't riddled with holes? "TimeCrimes" mounts doppelganger upon doppleganger until the film begins to hurt the brain as the viewer hastily tries to piece together the various timelines and switcheroos. It's all terribly exciting and handled with restrained tempo by Vigalondo through careful camera composition and an unnerving sound design.

Without going into too much plot detail, "TimeCrimes" loops some very serious questions around it's heady time travel scenario. What would we do if we were seemingly invisible and adverse to cause and effect? Are we destined to repeat our circumstances or do we have the power to change the seemingly hidden pull towards the inevitable? As Hector (Karra Elejalde), one of only 4 characters in the film, the beating compass of morality and choice lies with him. After a serene opening in which he and his wife have moved into a new house in the country, he takes up gazing across his backyard with a pair of binoculars. A few minutes later, he's beginning to become wrapped up into a mystery that echoes the razor sharp economy of image and sound inherent in Hitchcock's cinema of voyeurism. He sees a half naked girl posing for him. A wrecked vehicle. And Hector eventually comes face to face with a looming figure, complete with bloody-bandaged face and all, who forces a game of hide and seek through the woods. From there, "TimeCrimes" opens up a pandora's box of future and past timelines as Hector desperately tries to erase and manipulate the horrific events.

Based on one short film and now "TimeCrimes", it's clear the wave of Spanish invention in cinema is far from over. Del Toro, Amenenbar, Bayona... these guys are taking up the genre picture (horro and sci-fi specifically) and churning out refreshing spins that continue to grow upon repeat viewings. Now add "Time Crimes" to that list. I look forward to whatever Vigalondo does next.

Frankenheimer Times Two

Like so many of the directors who made the successful transition from stage and television to film, John Frankenheimer's glory days were in the early to mid-60's. Workmanlike and a professional journeyman, I've long been a Frankenheimer fan. I recently went back and finally caught up with two of his works that seem to have disappeared in that widening gulf of his career in the late 60's and early 70's- that tenuous time between huge success with classics such as "The Manchurian Candidate, "The Train" and "Seconds", and colossal failure in efforts like "The Fixer" (not available on VHS or DVD) the rampantly maligned "Impossible Object" and "99 and 1/4% Dead". Those directors lucky enough to produce films over several decades encounter this mid-season lull, and Frankenheimer was no exception. "The Gypsy Moths" and "The Horsemen", though, stand out as two underrated gems in an otherwise confusing period in his career.

The first, 1969's "The Gypsy Moths" is certainly the more interesting of the two. Starring his long time alter-ego, Burt Lancaster, as a disillusioned skydiver who rolls into a small mid-western town with his band of tricksters and proceeds to bring even more malaise than existed there before, "The Gypsy Moths" is an unusual slice of Hollywood melodrama. Observing Lancaster and his two partners (Gene Hackman as the hot-tempered and financially voracious of the trio and a young Scott Wilson) during the long weekend leading up to the diving show, Lancaster proceeds to begin an affair with bored housewife Deborah Kerr while the trio shrinks into petty fights, jealousy and varying outlooks about their careers. If it weren't for the extended, thrilling 25 minute set-piece showcasing the divers in action, "The Gyspy Moths" would fit nicely into Frankenheimer's early career of stagy melodrama ala Tennesse Williams. Instead, we get a complex and ultimately dark portrait of individuals in stasis. It's an interesting reversal to create a film about skydiving(!) which so fluently charts the characters morose and often middling feelings on life, love and work. The dichotomy is overpowering.

In 1971, Frankenheimer directed "The Horsemen" starring Omar Sharif as an Afghan son of a proud father (Jack Palance, no less) who enters the customary game of "buzkashi", a tradition in this part of the world dating back to Genghis Khan. Similar to polo on horses (yet much more brutal and soul-stretching) Frankenheimer situates the game and Sharif's presence in it as the mighty struggle for something bigger than himself. Indeed, even after losing the game (and breaking his leg), Sharif chooses the long, more difficult road home because his father never dared travel that route. Unlike "The Gypsy Moths", there's very little metaphorical ideas on display. It's a straight redemption tale about a son trying to impress and one-up his father. While the drama never falls flat, what impresses the most in "The Horseman" is Frankenheimer's complete dedication to the logistics of action. Like the long set-piece of sky-diving in "The Gypsy Moths", Frankenheimer places all moral weight of the story on the long buzkashi match in "The Horseman", filming it in agonizing details as bodies and horses pour into each other like a flowing mosh pit. Frankenheimer has always fetishized the car chase (see "Ronin" and especially his three hour car chase movie known as "Grand Prix" where the low angle, first person shots revolutionized how the industry could enliven this weary cliche) and with "The Horsemen", he again relishes the opportunity to display such kinetic action. Muscular has always been a good word to describe the sensibilities of Frankenheimer, and with "The Horseman", he proves that muscularity transcends time and place, from the asphalt jungles of Paris to a sand blasted desert in Afghanistan.

I don't claim that either film is a masterpiece, yet they're both insatiably watchable. On the DVD commentary track of "The Gypsy Moths" (one of the last things he'd do before his death in 2002), Frankenheimer decried the film's lack of place within its time, calling it a misunderstood work (and without really elaborating more). Neither film will overshadow the more prestigious works of his career, but both "The Horsemen" and "The Gypsy Moths" exemplify the 'journeyman ' tag to his name... revealing that no topic was too far removed from his instincts or visual prowess. Now, if only someone will get to work on releasing the other 'lost' films from this same time period, "The Fixer" and "The Extraordinary Seaman" so this Frankenheimer fan will be even more impressed.

Regional Review: Last Night At the Alamo

Another check marked can be applied to one of the films on my Produced and Abandoned Must See list. And, of all places, it's viewing came courtesy of IFC. Yes, in between their 125th showing of a film called "Let Him Have It", the channel slipped in ONE showing of Eagle Pennell's seminal Texas cult film. It felt like the proverbial needle in the haystack.

Pennell's second film, which has been marked as the inspiration for filmmakers like Richard Linklater and Robert Rodriguez, tells the simple, drunkenly tale of the patrons of a bar in Houston during its last night in operation. With a few exterior shots in the very beginning as Ichabod (Steven Mattila) and his girlfriend Mary (Tina Bess Hubbard) drive to the Alamo bar, Pennell's film is an example of indie filmmaking on a sparse budget. Even though the city of Houston is largely unrepresented, the languid and humid coastal Texas summer setting hangs over every frame of the film. It's the type of heat that we've all experienced- we drink to stay cool and never stay cool because we get drunk. 99% of the movie takes place inside the dank Alamo bar where sunlight seems to act as bright rays of sun that sends piercing stabs into the bar darkness. And the assorted cast huddled inside the bar- the brash and good looking Cowboy (Sonny Carl Davis), the drunk and lovelorn Claude (Lou Perryman)- hover from the light and sink deeper into their drinks as the night wears on. There are fights, shotguns pulled, LOTS of swear words (from a very liberal and rambling script by Texas screenwriter Kim Henkel best known for his collaboration with Tobe Hooper on "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre") and fights that threaten to break up relationships...everything that routinely happens in a beer-swigging, loose Texas bar on its final night of business.

"Last Night At the Alamo" breaks no new rules. The joy of the film lies in its rag-tag bunch of layabouts and misanthropes. The most dynamic character, Cowboy is just that- a boot wearing, smooth talking, long sleeve shirt wearing good 'ol boy who blows into the bar and gets everyone whooping and hollering. He eventually hooks up with the prettiest woman in the bar (Amanda Lamar) who ends up in the bar with her friend, overdressed and "slumming", pisses her off, starts a fight, and drives away in the same drunkened state that seems to cap off every night. At that's precisely the underlying point of "Last Night At the Alamo", an ironic title if I've ever heard one. Even though the Alamo is closing- an event that hints at an economic depression in the area- and a stalwart establishment is taking its leave, the Ichabods and Cowboys and Claudes of the world will continue their merry-go-round of drinking and talking long after the Alamo fades in their memory. They'll just drink and flirt and fight somewhere else. Tomorrow night will be the first night somewhere else. Pennell accurately captures this passing of time with humor and grandiose Texas swagger. And from all the stories I've read of him, Cowboy may be his alter ego. "Last Night At the Alamo" is definitely a film worth waiting for. Now, if only IFC would schedule MORE shwoings of it.

Cinema Obscura: Expect the Unexpected

Patrick Yau's late nineties action thriller, "Expect the Unexpected", certainly lives up to its title. Executive produced by everyone's favorite Asian director Johnny To, Yau's film bears a close resemblance to some of To's work, especially the crime-ridden urban environment of "Breaking News" in which violence seems to be seeping through every crevice of its downtown locations. In "Expect the Unexpected", the plot again concerns the abrupt clash of cops and crooks. As the film opens, a jewelry store robbery goes horribly awry, forcing the criminals to escape into a high rise apartment building with the cops in tow. Three different criminals watch all of this with anticipation from a cafe across the street since the very same apartment building seems to be their captivity grounds for kidnapped and assaulted women. While conducting a search from apartment to apartment, the cops discover this and find themselves hunting two separate groups of criminals. In the mix are two police sergeants played by Simon Lam and Ching Wang Lau (both staples of Johnny To films) who both fall for the cafe owner (Yo Yo Mung). If one can get through some of the very lame attempts at humor and some awful subtitles, there's a great little masterpiece within "Expect the Unexpected".

Formally, Yau is a great director of action films. Remember, this film was released in 1998 which means the shaky-cam has (thankfully) not yet entered the visual language of cinema. Instead, we're treated to long steadicam shots and carefully composed medium shots which neatly construct the logistics of space and placement during several shoot out scenes- especially the final one. But the real joy of "Expect the Unexpected" (as I alluded to earlier) is the sneaky translation of the film's title. If one thinks they know how this will turn out, think again. Yau doesn't ruin anything with a soapy twist ending, but he does play our expectations into a stunning reversal that will leave you breathless.

"Expect the Unexpected" is available on DVD.

DVD Shout Out: Jar City

I can count the number of glacial-set police thrillers on one hand. There's Erik Skjoldbjaerg's Norwegian "Insomnia" and that film's own American remake starring Al Pacino and Robin Williams which relocates its main setting to Nightmute, Alaska... and is a pretty under appreciated Christopher Nolan project. Both films pit a slowly unraveling police investigator against his own conscience and daylight itself, respectively. If I'm leaving off any well crafted films from this sub-genre, please let me know.

Now along comes Baltasar Kormakur's "Jar City", a film that revels in the same exotic setting and spares no police procedural details. When a body of a man is found murdered, Inspector Erlunder (Ingvar Sigurossen) and his colleagues mobilize to find the killer. What they dig up (besides the eyes of Iceland's apparent favorite food dish, sheep's head) is a long tract of police corruption, dark family secrets and seething hatred. In essence, "Jar City" is not far removed from the Hollywood film noirs- or at least the ones that attempt to pin down the seedy underbelly of Los Angeles such as "L.A. Confidential" or "The Black Dahlia"- which is not a good film yet it acutely embellishes James Ellroy's sickening and corrupted slant on the city of angels. With every step of "Jar City", the screws are tightened and we begin to not want the film to go any further. And when it does reach its climax, the non-linear story lines gel in a brutally resonant way.

Mirror ideas abound. While searching for the killer, Erlunder is dealing with the drug addiction of his own daughter. Another character loses his young daughter in the opening of the film. While the murder and violent themes- including a missing brain and a really, really scary, large, bald headed escape con- are presented in straight forward images, the beautiful landscape setting around Iceland's capital, Reykjavic, is sublime and starkly contrasts everything else. "Jar City" almost supposes the idea that violence never happens here, but when it does, its repercussions are felt throughout the country. Likewise, its seemingly random (and singular) murder surfaces generations of hatred, guilt and genetic disease. It's a very interesting idea, executed with style and depth. Check this one out.

70's Bonanza: "Smile"

Robert Altman's "Nashville" is generally regarded as the quintessential and sprawling masterpiece of the 70's that best encompasses a wide swath of political, cultural and religious factions of people. It's three hours long and serves as a microcosm for the United States (or at least middle America) and it still registers strongly as a descriptive and incisive time capsule of the period. I propose an alternative take- in the form of Michael Ritchie's "Smile". Released in the same year as "Nashville" (1975), it's a film that posits itself in small town California and reveals ideas and personalities just as deeply insightful about America as Altman's prescient vision. Instead of being a wide view of the people trying to make it in the country music scene, "Smile" fashions a black comedy around the surface artificiality of a beauty pageant. And while "Nashville" ultimately sinners into an angry evocation of political malice, "Smile" accomplishes the same feeling of lost innocence in smaller, more human increments. This is, simply put, one of the best films of that decade.

And in addition to that high praise, director Michael Ritchie is probably one of the most overlooked directors of the decade as well. Just look at his track record from 1969 to 1976- seven years saw the release of "Downhill Racer", "Prime Cut", "The Candidate", "Smile" and "The Bad News Bears". An amazing batch of films. Based on a screenplay by Jerry Belson, "Smile" stars Bruce Dern as the good 'ol American dad tasked with being the head judge of the Young American Miss beauty pageant as it stumbles into the small California town of Santa Rosa. Interspersed around the huge local event, we see glimpses of the seething imperfections beneath the pseudo glamorous surface. Dern's youngest son, 'Little Bob' (Eric Shea), is eventually arrested for being a peeping tom outside the dressing room windows of the beauty contestants- contestants including Melanie Griffith, Colleen Camp and Annette O'Toole. Dern's best friend, Andy (Nicholas Pryor), is the town drunk, suffering the onslaught of depression and avoiding his frigid wife, a former beauty pageant winner played by Barbara Feldon. The only advice that Dern can give his best friend is to "cheer up" and attend the local Knights of Columbus dinner later in the week... a dinner which, in and of itself, turns into a marvelously twisted set piece that requires all the men to dress up in white robes and force certain members to kiss the butt of an uncooked chicken. In the relationship between Dern and Andy comes the film's most searing example of suburban malaise. Even though Dern (and the whole town) believe that the ensuing pageant will somehow wash clean their problems, the influx of beautiful girls only magnifies their statical lives. There are old beauty queen winners struggling to deal with mid-life crisis, janitors who see the whole contest as another excuse to drink on the job and the fact that Dern can't control his own family. Even the beauty pageant contestants discover that life in small town California is not the answer to their boredom. While examining the self-conscious issues that surely arise from every angle of the beauty contest, "Smile" most acutely emphasizes the disconnect that exists in virtually every character searching for that elusive American Dream, whether they're competing or not.

Scathingly funny and full of wonderfully composed observations, "Smile" deserves to be re-assessed today. I dare anyone to screen this film and "Nashville" back to back and not come away inspired by both filmmakers and their genuine understanding of their day and age. "Smile" is the perfect title for a film that masks itself as a comedy when its true intent is to peel away the malcontent surface of its characters and their environment- and in the meantime pave the way for every other "suburban anomie" film from the works of Linklater to "American Beauty". Probably the most revelatory moment of "Smile" comes in its final scene. Obviously disturbed and disillusioned by the entire affair (and that the pageant itself is over, relegating him to just an RV salesman again), Dern approaches three marines as they're wrapping up an American flag on stage in the empty auditorium. He comments to them with, "You boys sure did a nice job." He then tells them he was in a certain division of the military and is met with a "yes, sir." The soldiers turn to walk off when one of the soldiers mumbles "you see the tits on miss san jose?" It's just yet another small chink in the armor for a man looking for something decent and traditional in a life that no longer matters. Solace and understanding can't even be found in America' s finest... and artificiality reigns supreme again.

Quick DVD Thoughts

Surfwise- One of the best documentaries to come along so far this year. Like "Capturing the Friedmans" or "Tarnation", Doug Pray's family expose goes to some pretty dark places and is present during some of their most joyous (such as a truly moving family reunion in Hawaii) moments. It's hard not to feel anxious for these kids, and even before I had any idea where this thing was headed, I found it psychologically perplexing that the children all referred to their father by his real name "Dorian", and not "dad".

Sleepwalking- Bill Maher's laborious indie drama is indicative of just how boring independent film has gotten. Dreary settings up north, yep. Emotionally stunted man child? Yes. Big actors taking small paychecks and financing the film? You got it. A journey of self discovery? Oh hell yes. All of this has been done before (and better) without Nick Stahl brooding in every scene and Charlize Theron portraying a lay-about mom who abandons her daughter.

21- Really surprised by how much I enjoyed this one. Though I'm sure it's been dazzled up and invigorated with drama from the original story its based on- yes I watch the History channel- "21" is still brisk, sexy film making. Then again, I'm always a sucker for movies about Vegas. And Kate Bosworth.

The Notorious Concubines- More cinema weirdo from Koji Wakamatsu, this time taking place in feudal Japan as a king takes many wives, has orgies, and begins wars. It's actually not as fun as it sounds. Like Wakamatsu did with "Ecstasy of the Angels", this is really a mainstream pinku film where sex is substituted for actual narrative and reasoning. The blood is cheap, the action is even cheaper.. but I'm told it was a huge art house hit back in the late 60's. Go figure.

Cinema Weirdo: Ecstacy of the Angels

When Cinemascope published an article last issue discussing the work of Japanese New Wave director Koji Wakamatsu, I knew I had to track down a few copies of his work. After seeing one of the (only) two films available on DVD, entitled "Ecstasy of the Angels", I'm flabbergasted and unsure if I really want to venture further. Filmed in 1972, "Ecstasy of the Angels" is definitely an acquired taste and prime candidate for any cult film junkie's list of weird and extreme.

Filmed in black and white with splashes of color thrown in for good measure (and indiscriminate reasons it appears), "Ecstasy of the Angels" follows a small group of Japanese revolutionaries who deal with in-fighting, power struggles and the daily grind of having to plant 'time bombs' all over the city, including police stations and crowded nightlife spots. But, I make this sound much more exciting than it really is. Like Godard's "La Chinoise", Koji is more interested in documenting the crazy ideas of his young warriors with dialogue rather than action. There is a flurry of activity towards the end of the film- captured in extremely jerky hand held camera work that follows a succession of bomb detonations around the city- but a majority of "Ecstasy of the Angels" takes place in the cramped, stuffy apartments of the revolutionaries as they spout mantra-like sayings and fight over the cache of stolen military munitions like three year olds. To make things even more avant garde, Koji supplies all his characters with names like Monday, Friday.... while the various factions of the militant group who struggle for power are known as seasons in the year. The 'October group' initially stole these weapons from a US army base (which opens the film with a rather well staged and believable break-in), but their reluctance to use them causes the 'February group' to show up, beat the 'October' leader, rape his girlfriend and take the weapons. If nothing else, Koji does a great job of fleshing out his revolutionaries as childish, inane and pretty clueless about reason, calculation or common sense.

But, wait... there's more to "Ecstasy of the Angels" than its political dissidence. Among the various double crosses and split factions, there's plenty of sex. Clearly deriving part of the film's stance from the pinku genre that Koji worked in for several decades, it belies a universe where sex and politics are inexplicably linked. Major decisions are made during the throes of passion. Nonsequitur comments such as "a park bench!" and "smash... smash them all!" are thrown out during foreplay to... I really have no idea. It does add a great dimension of weirdness and humor to the whole affair. If the film doesn't succeed as agitprop, then it may have a great shelf life as a comedy.

Wakamatsu has made close to 100 films since 1963. The next film I've slated to see is called "Go, Go Second Time Virgin" from 1969. It sounds just as genre-bending as "Ecstasy of the Angels": After being raped in an unknown rooftop, nineteen year-old girl Poppo meets a mysterious boy, and both share their sexual traumas and fears, with fatal consequences. Last year, Koji released a film called "United Red Army" that creeped into several critics top ten lists and has been written about recently by J Hoberman at the Village Voice. Koji is seemingly still interested in the disastrous and chaotic consequences of Japanese revolutionaries as this latest film (clocking in at 3 hours) follows a faction of the Red Army from infant stages to their death in a ski lodge. "Ecstacy of the Angels" seems to be his warm-up for this later effort. It is interesting to see a man of his age still spotlighting a cause he obviously supports, but if "Ecstacy of the Angels" is meant to convert anyone to his side of the line, then it fails miserably. If you're curious, check this one out.