Bohemian Cinema

Open Roads 2010: "Kiss Me Again"

pacheco@bohemiancinema.com (Jonathan Pacheco) — Sun, 06 Jun 2010 12:00:00 CDT

The same characters may be around from the Italian film The Last Kiss, but they're highly unbearable in its sequel, Kiss Me Again:

Admittedly, I quite enjoyed Gabriele Muccino's 2002 effort, The Last Kiss, finding it entertaining despite its pretentiousness and derivative style. Though it completely ignored many consequences of its characters' infidelities and betrayals, it didn't necessarily advocate the forgiveness of these reprehensible acts, indicated by the film's final sequence that assured us the repercussions of its protagonist's affair with a high schooler would soon catch up with him. Kiss Me Again, Muccino's attempt at his own Before Sunset, picks up 10 years later as its characters are haunted by their actions, but are eventually let off the hook by a director who can't help but give in, like a parent allowing his child to keep the toy he stole from his neighbor if he pouts long enough.

Open Roads 2010: "One Life, Maybe Two"

pacheco@bohemiancinema.com (Jonathan Pacheco) — Fri, 04 Jun 2010 20:00:00 CDT

As part of the Open Roads: New Italian Cinema program by the Film Society of Lincoln Center in New York, I take a look at the tangent universes of One Life, Maybe Two:

As in Krzysztof Kieslowski's Blind Chance (or its successor, Sliding Doors, if you're more into Gwyneth Paltrow), Alessandro Aronadio's One Life, Maybe Two presents the multiple paths a life takes based on the results of one diverging event, in this case a minor car accident. Chance alone determines whether the collision actually happens -- will the brakes work or not? -- with the aftermath of each outcome leading to two very different lives for Matteo (Lorenzo Balducci), a gardener and all-around good friend to his buddy Sandro (Riccardo Cicogna), who he was rushing to the hospital when the fender bender occurs (or nearly occurs). The two timelines share most of the same characters, but the accident displaces relationships, memories, and even personal morals depending on which parallel universe you happen to be in. Using a plot device as aggressive as split narratives in an independent, non-genre film is quite a gamble for Aronadio; most audiences are skeptical and ready to criticize the usage of such a gimmick, making it a much harder sell for the director, but while One Life, Maybe Two isn't the strongest or most poignant example of the branching-universes concept, the film develops enough emotion and character to elevate it well beyond a cheap trick.

"Seinfeld": It's Real and It's Spectacular

pacheco@bohemiancinema.com (Jonathan Pacheco) — Mon, 31 May 2010 08:00:00 CDT

Originally published under the title "It's Real and It's Spectacular" at Edward Copeland on Film.

"The greatest show ever" or "overrated"? "Cynical" or "postmodern"? Whatever you choose to label Seinfeld, there's no denying its well-documented impact on television and popular culture, and 20 years after its inaugural season, the brainchild of comedians Jerry Seinfeld and Larry David remains relevant thanks to its unconventionally simple approach to the sitcom genre, its cleverness and catchiness, and its memorable fleet of characters, from the core to the fringe. Seinfeld is instantly recognizable, incessantly memorable, and downright iconic; not bad for "a show about nothing."

The project actually dates back to 1989 when its pilot, The Seinfeld Chronicles, debuted on NBC in a slightly different incarnation, with the three male leads (Jerry as himself, Jason Alexander as George, and Michael Richards as Kramer), but missing its token female, Elaine (Julia Louis-Dreyfus). Feared to be "too New York," "too Jewish," and "too male," the show was passed on, but in a gutsy show of faith, network exec Rick Ludwin used part of his late-night and special events budget to fund four more episodes of the show, and almost a year after its pilot premiered, Seinfeld had its brief first season.

It began as a meek, leisurely, conversational show, feeling its way through the darkness with Seinfeld and David leading the way on all fronts (they're often referred to as "Lennon and McCartney"). Dead-set on showcasing things once thought too mundane to put on TV, scenes took their time as we watched Jerry in his apartment alone, untucking his shirt, grabbing a bowl of cereal, sitting down to watch a baseball game.... Because the show was in its infancy, it hadn't quite found its identity, so it borrowed heavily from the observational tone of Seinfeld's standup and the dialogue-heavy strategy of fellow Jewish New Yorker Woody Allen. Characters spoke "natural" dialogue in thick New York accents and Jerry always stood on deck, ready with pre-planned sarcastic one-liners. These early episodes are almost adorable in their earnestness to literally be "a show about nothing" and to stand out as quirky and unique. What thin plots they did have were simple and low-key: did Jerry misinterpret "signals" from a woman? Should Jerry move into a new apartment? How does Jerry tell Elaine he doesn't want her to move into his building? How does Jerry "break up" with a male friend? These episodes often ended with very cute punch-lines to tie things together, sometimes more cringe-worthy than endearing.

By the 3rd season, episodes began to speed up as Larry and Jerry started to get the hang of this television thing, leading to Seinfeld's watershed 4th season when the show, characters, and writers really found their voices. They discovered the perfect level of self-hatred and neurosis for George, learned Kramer could be much more than simply the clich�d hipster doofus next door, realized Elaine offered more than just her history as Jerry's ex-girlfriend, and found that Jerry's jokes worked best as clever, rapidly conjured zingers as opposed to slow, quaint observations. Possibly most importantly, Jerry, Larry, and all involved realized that a show about nothing doesn't need to be a show where characters do nothing. Celebrated episodes from this time period like "The Contest" (a bold turning point for the show, launching it into the stratosphere, and responsible for the euphemism "master of your domain"), "The Outing" (you know, the "not that there's anything wrong with it" show), "The Switch" (one of the strongest episodes of the show's entire run, paying homage to classic noir and heist films), and "The Soup Nazi" (possibly Seinfeld's most recognizable and memorable episode) gave these characters more to do at a quicker pace, developing them through their reactions to the ridiculous problems surrounding them. It's also no coincidence that Seinfeld's two strongest seasons -- the 4th and the 7th -- were the two seasons that featured prominent season-long plots (with the 4th season revolving around Jerry and George pitching, writing, and filming their TV show pilot, and the 7th centering on George's proposal and engagement to Susan).

When Larry David left Seinfeld as co-showrunner after Season 7 (the equivalent of Carlton Cuse or Damon Lindelof stepping down from Lost after its 4th season), Seinfeld shifted into its 3rd distinct era. While seasons 4 through 7 featured exceptionally notable writing and a fun but jaded view of the world typical of Larry David, the final two seasons truly felt more like Jerry: exceedingly silly and absurd, but meticulously planned out. Interestingly, the earlier seasons always felt like Jerry and Larry's babies, but seasons 8 and 9 felt more like Seinfeld's babies, with the show bringing on board many talented writers from other TV shows -- people who knew and loved Seinfeld -- and let them do their own thing, essentially creating episodes out of their collective fan fiction. (Seinfeld featured other writers for many years, but the final scripts would always make a stop at Larry and Jerry's office for final revisions. Not so in the final seasons with Larry stepping down and Jerry overloading with other responsibilities.) The show shifted from belonging to the two creators to belonging to the world of the show, a world created over seven or eight years, accumulating its own set of rules and traits. Anyone who'd been a fan of the show could tell you what a sort of Seinfeld Bible might look like: this is who the characters are, this is how they react, this is how we tie stories together, and this is what we never, ever, do. Anything else, you can pretty much get away with -- and the writers did. The show became more self-aware as the new writers brought fresh perspectives to the team, and that's we ended up with episodes such as "The Betrayal" (the backward episode), "The Bizarro Jerry" (perhaps the most meta episode out of all nine seasons), and "The Chicken Roaster" (for years my favorite Seinfeld episode, full of goofiness, great lines, and fun plot connections and resolutions).

Moving along the same line of the show's style, the core characters evolved from quirky and quaint to lovable and relatable to iconic, and they grew as a group. Scene-stealing supporting characters like Newman, the Soup Nazi, and J. Peterman are remembered for their individual performances, and Kramer truly transcends the show entirely (more on that later), but it's very difficult to look at Jerry, Elaine, George, and Cosmo without identifying them as one entity. Dating back to the pilot episode, several of the weaker episodes suffered from missing a character or two, the lone exception being "The Chinese Restaurant", a classic despite not having Kramer in it at all. But generally speaking, remove any leg from this table, and it comes crashing down.

As a tangent to that, one of the reasons Jerry's apartment and Monk's, the coffee shop, became so iconic was because they were places of convergence and came to represent the show's nucleus. These were settings where all four would meet, complain, scheme, banter, bicker, muse, reflect, and bond. The masturbation contest was conceived at Monk's, and in that same booth we got George's classic marine biologist monologue to the group, while Jerry's apartment was a hub for pontificating social guidelines like breakup etiquette. ("To the victor belong the spoils.") These locations were the group.

But admittedly, Kramer lives on as the most recognized, beloved, and memorable character of the bunch, typical of the "buffoon" in comedies. (Who was more memorable in Shakespeare's As You Like It: Orlando, the romantic lead, or the court fool Touchstone?) With his trademark hair and vintage clothing, the jobless cigar-smoking ladies' man elicits a strong and immediate reaction on-sight because of his countless legendary moments, from his patented entrance to his butter shaving to his scenes as a supposed pimp. The layperson may not know much about Seinfeld but he definitely knows Cosmo Kramer, who's become a sort of archetype for the modern clown. (In a production of You Can't Take It With You, I was instructed to incorporate many elements of the K-Man into my role of Mr. DePinna. Years later, a friend of mine was directed to play Verges as Kramer in Much Ado About Nothing. I've yet to hear a director say, "Play him more like Joey Tribbiani.")

The success of the character comes from so many different factors, but one musn't underplay the impact of the professionalism of Michael Richards. Despite his silly role, he was the one on set taking his job most seriously, sometimes to a fault, and his dedication elevated his performance. He drew inspiration for his physical antics from classic and silent comedies, with so much of that style hinging on harnessing and communicating true weight -- bouncing off objects that strike you, using your weight to create harder falls, conveying the heaviness of everything you carry. Richards was fearless in this respect, sacrificing himself like a workhorse running back, punishing his body just to get that extra yard. To watch him tumble across a couch, lug a real air conditioner around a parking garage, or slide down a baggage chute is to marvel at his commitment to bringing as much weight to Kramer as possible.

Larry and Jerry have said that they always had a rule of "no hugging, no learning," and I think that was a big part of Seinfeld's appeal during and after its run, ensuring that viewers would avoid the vomit-inducing "serious moments" that other sitcoms feel obligated to provide. Think of an episode of Friends; do any of us really have such blatant and sweet lesson-learning moments like they do every week on that show? Seinfeld works for the audience that cringes during these moments, recognizing that maybe some people don't want to be "learning lessons" from their sitcoms. Maybe they just want to laugh. It's not that Costanza, Seinfeld, Benes, and Kramer don't love each other, because their affection is beautifully obvious; it's that real people don't conveniently and explicitly express their feelings at the 19-minute mark. Sometimes it's enough to let your loyalty, rapport, and insults do the loving.

Keeping the "no hugging, no learning" credo in mind also helps make the show's finale highly appropriate. We can quibble about how the last episode was acted and executed, but it's hard to deny that having all four characters end up in jail, still not hugging, still no lessons learned, but still together, is nothing if not a logical and somewhat poetic ending to what we saw for nine years. (Not convinced? Go back and watch Season 4's "The Handicap Spot.") Nevertheless, many people take issue with it because the episode had that blatant finale feel, but not the patented TV series happy ending. Moreover, many elements such as the "final group vacation" and throwback to ancient jokes just felt out of place; it was almost as if every character was aware that he was in a finale. The episode was written by Larry David, who hadn't done a Seinfeld script since the Season 7 finale, and consequently this one proved to be a bit out of place with the flow and comedic groove of the ninth season. Instead of feeling like a true Seinfeld episode, it felt like someone trying to write a Seinfeld episode.

The finale did feature a few final masterstrokes, namely its ending mirroring the show's beginning, all the way back to the beginning of The Seinfeld Chronicles. As the four characters sit in a jail cell, Jerry and George repeat the first conversation we ever hear them have, bringing the show full circle (you're not the only one who can do that, Lost), and as a nice little coda, we get to see Jerry do stand-up for the show one last time, this time with an audience of prison-mates.

But in what could be the most brilliant move of all, Larry David made up for the shortcomings of the Seinfeld finale by writing a season-long plot for Curb Your Enthusiasm last year revolving around the Seinfeld cast getting back together for one more episode. David managed to make a reunion show without actually making a reunion show, instead letting it exist as merely a fictional storyline. Slyly winking at itself and even poking fun at the much-maligned finale (a running joke has characters claiming the reunion episode would make up for "screwing up" the Seinfeld ending while Larry vehemently defends it), this move ultimately gave audiences what they wanted without the awkwardness and lameness of a typical reunion show.

Seinfeld continues to live on via DVD and TBS reruns, and has aged remarkably well since it ended its run in 1998. Though the latter seasons, with lots of newer, younger writers, featured a few pop culture references that seem a little dated today (jabs at Titanic, the impending new millennium, and tentative talk of the Internet), many of the show's jokes, especially in the middle seasons, have a timeless quality because they don't focus so much on up-to-date references, but rather on lasting historical allusions, such as the most unattractive world leaders of all time, favorite explorers, the Kennedy family, and Bud Abbott. In retrospect, Seinfeld feels like it gave more to modern pop culture than it took from it. I mean, do I have to get into how many catchphrases the show has contributed or popularized? (Answer: Yes, I do. "Yadda yadda yadda," "spongeworthy," "double-dip," "shrinkage," "these pretzels are making me thirsty," "no soup for you," "the [blank] Nazi," "man-hands," "mimbo," the aforementioned "master of your domain" and "not that there's anything wrong with it" -- just to name a few.)

Seinfeld's legacy with me personally, as I've written before, is about much more than its entertainment value. The show is a litmus test, something to bond over, and a way for me to relate to people. (You'll know that you and I have gotten close when I stop prefacing my jokes and references with, "There's this one Seinfeld episode".) The show helped me socialize in high school, and taped reruns and DVDs have helped put me to sleep every night for nearly 10 years. My brother and I even express moments of pride when our significant others deliver flawless Seinfeld references all on their own. Yes, I know, "no hugging, no learning," but I'm making an exception; the show is a dear, dear friend to me.

"The Shining" (1980) - Thrilled

pacheco@bohemiancinema.com (Jonathan Pacheco) — Sun, 23 May 2010 08:00:00 CDT

Directed by Stanley Kubrick

Originally published under the title "I Am Jack's Raging Madness" at Edward Copeland on Film.

It's well known that Stephen King was, shall we say, less than pleased with Stanley Kubrick's 1980 adaptation of his novel The Shining. Much to the author's dismay, Kubrick removed many of the elements that made the story "patent Stephen King" -- particularly King's clear, definitive vision of the supernatural -- and stripped the protagonist of nearly all his backstory and characterization, instead using ambiguity and a deceptively "bare-bones" approach to the story as a way to engage his audience in a timeless manner. As King put it, "Kubrick didn't really do the book, he did a Stanley Kubrick film." Precisely, Mr. King, and that's why even 30 years later, Kubrick's film still works so well.

Stay anywhere long enough, and you'll get claustrophobic, even at the expansive Overlook Hotel in Colorado, where Jack Torrance (Jack Nicholson) accepts a winter-long gig as caretaker, with his wife Wendy (Shelley Duvall) and son, Danny (Danny Lloyd) acting as the only other inhabitants of the building during this time. Danny exhibits psychic abilities -- or as the hotel chef (also psychic) puts it, he "shines" -- and he picks up on some bad vibes coming from the hotel itself, catching visions of brutal murders and elevator bloodbaths. These same evil spiritual forces slowly possess his father Jack with a mean case of cabin fever as the man just tries his darnedest to write his novel, and soon enough, all work and no play makes Jack one of the most memorable film villains of all time.

Kubrick's refusal to explicitly explain the supernatural events in the film contributes to its lasting appeal, intrigue, and debatability, even after three decades. Sure, at first glance, The Shining is downright simple: a guy goes nuts in an isolated hotel and tries to butcher his family. Yet any superficial musing immediately calls into question what we think we believe. Did Jack go mad or was he possessed? Are the ghosts real or merely cabin fever hallucinations? Did the spirits have a purpose for possessing Jack, or was it just one man's descent into madness? Was Jack absorbed by the spirits of the hotel, or does the final shot imply reincarnation? And we haven't even gotten into the two Gradys or the more interesting details of The Photograph (taken in 1921, the year that the relevantly titled The Phantom Carriage was released, a film featuring the source material for the legendary "Here's Johnny!" sequence). Despite what the time-travel-weary fans of Lost might claim, people are much more interested in questions than in answers because questions don't lock you into one person's vision. With The Shining, Kubrick wants to drive you mad with possibilities.

In Jack, King had intended to give his audience an everyman, burdening him with very human problems (heavy alcoholism and a family life rich in abuse and dysfunction), but Kubrick chose again to leave more to the imagination by downplaying and eliminating those histories, changing Jack from an autobiographical personification of Stephen King to simply a frustrated guy with anger issues and an annoying wife. Jack's not quite an empty vessel of a character, but because we are allowed to fill in the blanks with our own experiences, Kubrick in many ways still accomplishes the goal of making Jack an everyman.

For this reason, many attribute much of the disturbing effectiveness of The Shining to Jack's "resemblance" of people we know, particularly our own fathers (I have a friend whose apartment features a framed photo of Jack Torrance, but no pictures of her own dad), though personally, I see Jack most in myself. Struggling to finish his very vague "writing project" (the genericness there working in favor of the film's universal appeal), he finds himself killing time tossing a tennis ball against the wall instead of grinding away at the typewriter, growing more and more frustrated until he begins snapping at his wife, blaming her for his inability to realize his goals. It made me sit up straighter; that's me on the screen, doing those same things and making those same excuses, almost verbatim:

I'm not being grouchy, I just wanna finish my work.

Whenever you come in here and interrupt me, you're breaking my concentration. You're distracting me, and it will then take me time to get back to where I was. Understand?

Whenever I'm in here, and you hear me typing, or whether you don't hear me typing -- whatever the fuck you hear me doing in here, when I'm in here, that means that I am working. That means don't come in.

The man punctuates his sentences by tearing his paper and smacking his head, benign behavior when compared to his later actions, but nevertheless all too familiar. Is The Shining still scary? Absolutely (the first time I tried watching it seven years ago, I hurriedly cut it off during the Room 237 sequence and refused to revisit it for years. I still struggle to get through that scene without looking away). But for me, its lasting appeal isn't based in its still-functioning ability to make me watch it with the lights on, but in its archetypal portrait of a frustrated, possessed man, frighteningly accurate and endlessly intriguing.

SXSW 2010 Postscript: On "Cold Weather" and Original Live Scoring

pacheco@bohemiancinema.com (Jonathan Pacheco) — Thu, 25 Mar 2010 17:00:00 CDT

I bid adieu to SXSW 2010 with three -- count 'em! -- reviews of films with live performances of originals scores, but not before I take a look at the latest from Aaron Katz, Cold Weather:

You're bound to stumble upon a couple of mumblecore movies if you spend enough time at SXSW; regardless of your love or hate for that term and style of low-budget filmmaking, there's no denying that the festival smiles favorably on the likes of Joe Swanberg, Andrew Bujalski, the Duplass brothers, or anyone in their "extended family," and having an outlet of this magnitude is one reason why mumblecore hasn't died out yet, despite seemingly annual proclamations to the contrary from critics. However, because most of these films are only slight variations of one another, the so-called movement will eventually peter out if it doesn't evolve. This year, SXSW showcased a few examples of that evolution in Cyrus and Aaron Katz's Cold Weather, a film with polish, wit, and impeccable comedic timing.

Read my final SXSW 2010 dispatch at The House Next Door.

SXSW 2010: "11/4/08," "Elektra Luxx"

pacheco@bohemiancinema.com (Jonathan Pacheco) — Sat, 20 Mar 2010 11:00:00 CDT

The less-than-stellar Elektra Luxx fails to eliminate the bad taste left from the Election Day documentary 11/4/08:

The director of 11/4/08 states that he enlisted the help of friends around the world to film their experiences on Election Day in order to "see what history looks like," but you know how the saying goes: History is written by the winners. 11/4/08 represents not what happened this past presidential election in the U.S., but rather what happened to the victors.

As usual, check the rest of my 11/4/08 review at The House Next Door.

SXSW 2010: "Marwencol," "Brotherhood"

pacheco@bohemiancinema.com (Jonathan Pacheco) — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 00:00:00 CDT

Along with a review of the surprisingly good indie frat thriller Brotherhood, I take a closer look at the documentary Marwencol:

I'm a bit wary of a documentary that feels the need to split itself up into chapters. To me, it's typically a sign of a director that doesn't quite know how to unify his material�one of the basic challenges of this genre. You've accumulated a lot of footage, now how do you make it flow? Chapter division seems like a bit of a trick solution to that problem.

Continue this review of Marwencol at The House Next Door.

SXSW 2010: "Crying with Laughter," "The Thorn in the Heart," "Cannibal Girls"

pacheco@bohemiancinema.com (Jonathan Pacheco) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 10:00:00 CDT

In my first report from this year's SXSW, I look at Michel Gondry's family documentary The Thorn in the Heart, Ivan Reitman's early and terrible Cannibal Girls, and Crying with Laughter:

Joey Frisk (a very capable Stephen McCole) is a fireball on the verge of flaming out. His vulgar, relentless standup comedy style seems to demand that he self-destruct in every area of his life, from his irresponsibility as a father to his unprofessionalism as a comedian. He precedes his acts with a ritualistic line of coke, walks out on stage swigging a beer, and unleashes at whoever he can spot in the dimly lit crowd.

The film begins as a surprisingly interesting study of Joey, a Scottish man incapable of pulling things together. He can't help but mess things up with his landlord, his ex, and even the old schoolmate who tracks him down (Malcom Shields). But about 25 minutes in, another film begins and leaves this one behind, instantly transforming Crying with Laughter into a breezy "mystery" thriller with plot holes. When Joey spends the third act bloody, running, and saving the day while trying to reason with villains, it hits you: "Wait�how the heck did we end up here?" I yearned for the captivating character piece this film began as.

Read the entire SXSW dispatch at The House Next Door.

Bohemian Cinema at SXSW 2010

pacheco@bohemiancinema.com (Jonathan Pacheco) — Sat, 13 Mar 2010 06:52:33 CST

Things are going to be a little different this time around.

Last year I wrote down a goal (though where I wrote it is anyone's guess): next time I attend SXSW, I'd attend with press credentials. Well, let's hear it for the power of the subconscious, because come this weekend, I'll be down in Austin with a Press Badge on behalf of The Official Blog of Slant Magazine: Based on the Site 'The House Next Door' by Seitz (I'm officially overusing that joke in an attempt to flush it from our culture as quickly as possible).

When I attended the festival in 2007 and in 2009, I went on my own, and enjoyed the freedom to watch five, six films a day, able to make that kind of schedule without any friends or companions to weigh me down. However, a dose of loneliness inevitably hit me halfway through the festival. I'm not one to strike up conversations with the college roommates in front of me or the Louisiana journalist behind me, so most of my "conversations" involved eavesdropping on the dialogues of others. This year, I'm not the only one in Austin upholding the Slant/House name. Elise Nakhnikian and Lauren Kinsler will both attend the festival and write for the blog, and while we won't wear team shirts or attend every screening arm-in-arm, I know their presence will help alleviate some of that loneliness. I welcome the opportunity to make these new friends.

I'm curious to find out how my festival experience differs with a Press Badge as opposed to a Film Badge, as in previous years. I don't see myself taking advantage of the main press perks -- "red carpet" opportunities, promotional interviews with talents -- however, my preliminary schedule has me watching 35+ films (and that's with taking time off for Sabbath, and not counting some pre-festival DVDs I did take advantage of). Last year I caught around 23, so, press credentials or not, we're gonna see what ol' Jonny's truly made of. Of particular interest: a midnight screening of Amer, which looks unspeakably cool, Aaron Katz's Cold Weather (you'll remember my fondness for Quiet City), as well as live-score presentations of classics I'm only now admitting I've never seen: The Passion of Joan of Arc and The Unknown. If those are anything like last year's presentation of Metropolis, I'm in for some unforgettable events.

With such a high volume of films, my wisest move is to write mostly capsule reviews, which you'll find over at Slant/House. However, look for some content to spill over onto this site, particularly after the festival's run. The late entries will fit right in with my many procrastinated video essays, aborted series ideas, and false-started reviews.

Keep checking back here and The House Next Door during this new week; you have tons of reviews from myself, Elise, and Lauren, as well as a podcast to look forward to. You can also follow me on Twitter -- @pacheco -- or even check out my festival schedule, you freaking stalker, you. If you happen to see my Claudio Sanchez/Rubeus Hagrid haircut scurrying from the Ritz to the Paramount or slamming back a Red Bull before another midnight screening, don't be shy, give me a shout. Help make my trip even less lonely.

The Purple Rose of Cairo (1985) - Ecstatic

pacheco@bohemiancinema.com (Jonathan Pacheco) — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 07:00:00 CST

Directed by Woody Allen

Originally published under the title "He's Fictional, But You Can't Have Everything" at Edward Copeland on Film.

It's no tall order to write a tragedy set during the Great Depression, but I imagine it takes some restraint to write one where the era's circumstances aren't the immediate sources of distress. The Purple Rose of Cairo, turning 25 today, tells a hearbreaking story that's sadness comes not from the Depression's difficult times, but from one person's antidote to these hardships. This gives the relatively simple tale much more depth, for the filmmaking occupies itself not with plot and historical accuracy, but with understanding its themes -- namely, reality versus fantasy, cinematic escapism, and perhaps a slight warning against this defense mechanism. And it's because of this that, though I often cite Annie Hall as my favorite Woody Allen film, I have to side with Edward: The Purple Rose of Cairo is the director at his most masterful, focused, and wise.

I would argue that it's not Cecilia's (Mia Farrow) abusive marriage to Monk (Danny Aiello) that saddens the viewer as much as her fear of doing anything about it. She'll pack a suitcase and walk out on her husband, only to return later that night. She's a naive, submissive, meek mouse of a woman, fragile physically as well as emotionally and psychologically. Her only escape from the disheartening New Jersey world around her is the local cinema. Many people turn to movies to distract them from personal troubles, but Cecilia carries it further, captivated by the film world for days at a time. She can barely function at work without breaking plates or forgetting orders due to her enraptured state.

Imagine her excitement when, after an emotionally damaging day, she watches three straight showings of the newest film in the theater, "The Purple Rose of Cairo", only to have one of the minor characters on screen take notice of her in the audience. Tom Baxter (Jeff Daniels) literally leaps off the screen and runs out of the theater with Cecilia, hopelessly in love.

Every time I watch the film, I'm impressed by Jeff Daniels' performance as Tom, straightly playing the pitch-perfect innocence the adventurer-poet is meant to embody. I'm even more amazed when Daniels shows up again as the actor who played Tom, Gil Shepherd (in town trying to convince his character to jump back into the limboed film on screen). Gil's a man desperately reaching for Hollywood stardom, making him susceptible to anyone willing to flatter him. Watch the scene where he meets Cecilia at her house to inquire about Tom's whereabouts. Gil starts the conversation with one purpose, and the next thing you know, he's taking Cecilia out for a meal, completely smitten with her; the turnaround is nothing short of astonishing, and Daniels plays it brilliantly. Every compliment Gil receives turns his character's attitude a few more degrees, and oh, how fluidly Daniels performs this transition.

Daniels' dual roles and Tom's self-aware existence aren't new to anyone who knows their Woody Allen (more recently, think of Melinda and Melinda and the literally out-of-focus Robin Williams character in Deconstructing Harry), but it's in this film that the director simply nails all of it. It's been widely quoted that this is one of the few films Allen feels turned out closest to his original vision, and I believe it. The Purple Rose of Cairo is a taut 82 minutes -- always focused, even while on tangents, like when Tom unknowingly wanders into a bordello, nearly roped into an orgy. In this seemingly unrelated scene, Tom turns down sexual offers because he's completely in love with and loyal to Cecilia, and the sequence becomes an emphasis on Allen's idea that women, even working girls, desperately want to believe in the romanticism that Tom personifies. In this film, everything falls in line with the greater narrative.

Allen has often toyed with the idea of shooting films through the mind of the protagonist. Annie Hall's original cut was heavier on this concept, but the final film still supports this idea, from Alvy's words to the audience to his literal trips down memory lane. After the dead rabbit moment in the kitchen, the rest of Stardust Memories is intended to be filmed from the mind of Sandy. And everything in Deconstructing Harry, from the events to the editing, represent Harry's state of mind, not necessarily his reality. Although I never considered this during my initial viewing, I now see the events of The Purple Rose of Cairo as taking place almost exclusively in Cecilia's mind. This viewpoint takes a sad love story and turns it into a depressing tale of what this poor woman resorts to to deal with her terrible life.

Think of the film's title: "The Purple Rose of Cairo", described in the film-within-the-film as an Egyptian rose painted purple. It takes something commonly associated with romance, and perverts it to make it even more exotic. In the same way, Cecilia takes the romantic notion of escaping through movies, and one-ups it: what about escaping from a movie, or escaping into a movie? Tom relays a legend that claims The Purple Rose of Cairo now grows naturally within the Egyptian tomb, and so Cecilia wishes that her altered, unlikely, and unrealistic romance (first with Tom, then with Gil) can blossom into something true and natural.

When she chooses between the character of Tom and Gil the actor, she's choosing between fantasy and reality. But try to imagine her heartbreak when she realizes that her "reality," in this state of mind, is still a fantasy, as Gil jets for Hollywood the moment Tom hops back onto the screen. Cecilia's become so far removed from true reality -- the reality of her trapping marriage, the reality of the depression that surrounds her -- that it takes the loss of two lovers to bring her crashing back. But Allen still doesn't let us off the hook, because instead of fully accepting her true reality, Cecilia once more chooses to escape through the movies, "the true love of her life" as Edward puts it. Yes, it's sort of a beautiful tragedy when you think of it that way, but by not dealing with or fully accepting her reality, by alleviating the pain from her fantasy letdown by trying to escape into fantasy once again, Cecilia refuses to heal. She perpetuates the cycle that caused her mental breakdown to begin with. As the film fades to black, Cecilia has the same look on her face that she had shortly before Tom Baxter stepped off the screen and indulged her fantasies, and it's only a matter of time until it happens again.

While the film boasts countless laughs and even a bit of Hollywood satire, Allen firmly holds onto this one, never letting it fly apart in a wild mess. Instead, a tragic air permeates even the laughter of nearly every scene as the director crafts a balanced, cohesive film with such an emotionally important message.

"The Ghost Writer" (2010) - Pleased

pacheco@bohemiancinema.com (Jonathan Pacheco) — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 07:00:00 CST

Directed by Roman Polanski

Originally published under the title "The Solid Guy" at Edward Copeland on Film.

You knew a guy back in high school, a pleasant, smart, occasionally clever guy. Not a brainiac, not a clown, not a jerk, not a socialite, just a solid guy. He possessed few faults (as far as you cared), and you never thought of him as "average"; he was more interesting than that. But these days, you really don't remember him unless someone else brings him up, and you say, "Oh yeah, that guy."

A solid, decent guy typically doesn't claim a lot of real estate from your memory landscape. And why is that? Well...because his intelligence didn't frighten you like the kid with the 4.5 GPA. Because you two didn't have an ongoing comic strip featuring characters like "Super Cow" and "The Snoogan." Because he never soiled a friend's pillow with his precious bodily fluids at summer camp. You meet a lot of people through the years, and as time goes by, this solid guy just doesn't jump out at you nearly as much as some of the more memorable or extreme people. Isn't that a shame?

Roman Polanski's The Ghost Writer is that solid guy, and finding something wrong with the film is proving difficult for me. Its story of an author (Ewan McGregor) penning the memoirs of a former British prime minister (Pierce Brosnan) engages and entertains, slowly spinning us and our protagonist through a political vortex. The acting ensemble shows few cracks and the muted cinematography pleasantly understates without resorting to "easy shots." It's a solid film.

And yet...there just isn't enough to set it apart. I applaud a film that resists the urge to "spice up" subtle roles, that avoids unnecessarily active camerawork, that refrains from shoehorning misfit car chases. These choices aren't unadventurous, they're intelligent. But if The Ghost Writer had hoped to claim greatness, it should've taken more risks, particularly with its script. The plausible story (in movie terms) doesn't take itself too seriously (something I love), but as it unfolds, it opts for security over potential. I wouldn't call the developments and twists clichéd, but they're only a notch or two above that, which perks-up but doesn't truly refresh a mostly familiar plot.

That's a bummer, because The Ghost Writer has got a lot of positives. It visually employs hues of blues, sandy beiges, and sterile metallics more creatively than the typical political thriller (reminding me a little of Tom Tykwer's work in The International), and it showcases charismatic performances from McGregor -- loose, funny, and never in the way -- as well as Olivia Williams -- sexy and comfortable as the former prime minister's loyal but secretive wife. Really, I'm aching to hail The Ghost Writer as a great film; it's not. Worse, I sound like I'm bashing the film when I say that.

After finishing a draft of this review, I read Roger Ebert's thoughts on the film. We both praise it for pretty much the same things: strong acting, entertaining storytelling, filmmaking built on "craft, not gimmicks," as Roger puts it. Yet he gives The Ghost Writer his highest rating -- four stars -- and I'm struggling not to call Polanski's film "forgettable." The difference, as I've written in the past, is that someone like Ebert feels that the height of filmmaking is not making mistakes, and while I respect that opinion, it seems a little soft and unchallenging for my own personal definition. A film that makes no mistakes is usually a film that plays things safely. The Ghost Writer, when it really counts, does just that.

You see, it is a strong film, just not strong enough to distance itself from the pack, dooming it to live on as "the solid guy." It's that pleasant film that you watch, enjoy, and forget about in a few weeks. Months -- perhaps years -- later, a friend of yours spots the DVD in the bargain bin. "Hey, you seen this one? Ghost Writer?"

"Which one?"

He holds up the case for you. "Here. Look."

"Oh yeah, that movie."

"Port Twilight or the History of Science"

pacheco@bohemiancinema.com (Jonathan Pacheco) — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 20:58:24 CST

The praise of the Undermain Theatre's production of Port Twilight primarily centers around, well, the production. Not that it's undeserved. The play is a three-ring circus of sliding curtain sets, complex sound, light, and video design, and a cast that carries its weight playing scientists, rabbis, mythical demons and, yes, even an organ grinder. Port Twilight is not unlike Terry Gilliam's Brazil, a sci-fi/fantasy-noir bathed in the kind of retro-futuristic motif that typically leaves me weak in the knees. So it's understandable that the Dallas media want to gush about the Undermain's accomplishments; small, well-executed, experimental theater isn’t as common in these parts as many would like. Yet too many reviewers almost refuse to examine the play itself, completely satisfied with the euphoria provided by such a technically ambitious presentation. Call me spoiled, but I expect a well-executed, entertaining production. I want more than the superficial extravaganza, and unfortunately that's where the show's flaws lurk.

To read the rest of my first theater review, mosey on over to the official blog of Slant Magazine, The House Next Door.

Film Handicapping and "Blanc de Blanc"

pacheco@bohemiancinema.com (Jonathan Pacheco) — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 00:26:04 CST

I don't like the idea of handicapping films. Whether it had a budget of $300 million or just $300, whether it was shot over two years or over two weeks, I wish I could evaluate every film on the same plane. Many people are uncertain of how to look at indie and uber-indie films; do they view them with the same eye with which they view the next Wachowski Brothers film, or do they give the film with perceivably fewer resources a few passes along the way? Even though my ideals beg me to judge each film on that level plane, I've always assigned a cinematic handicap to every movie I view, from the small film burned on a DVD using the director's personal computer to the ballyhooed Hollywood epic shining brightly on the IMAX screen.

Blanc de Blanc almost begs to be handicapped. Before the film even begins (in the version I viewed), a title card informs the viewer that this film was shot and edited within two weeks as part of a Twitter challenge labeled #2wkfilm. Completing a feature film is a small miracle in itself; doing most of it within a two week span is that much more impressive. The challenge serves as a way to get the filmmaker to let go of excuses and just make a feature film. There's no time to second-guess yourself and no time to allow your project to fall into any sort of limbo. There's also no time to fix, to edit, or to retool your film. If something doesn't feel right while shooting or cutting -- tough. You've got a feature to plow through. I imagine that the majority of the shooting and editing takes on a run-and-gun style just to get the darn thing completed. ^[1] To say the least, there will never be a #2wkfilm Avatar.

How much of this do I take into account when I look at Blanc de Blanc? Am I more forgiving of its flaws, considering what director Lucas McNelly accomplished, and how he went about it? Are the film's triumphs even richer because of how the film was formed? Earlier this year, a local critic went on the radio and stated his conviction that Danny Boyle deserved the Best Director Oscar thanks entirely to Slumdog Millionaire's difficult shooting conditions in Mumbai. I scoffed; that might have been the dumbest thing I'd heard all Awards Season. I still disagree with the gentleman's conclusion, but I'm beginning to understand how he came to it. Once you know (or have even experienced) the plight of the filmmaker, particularly the indie one, it's even more difficult to look at all films on that equal level of comparison. How can you not give the little guy some sort of handicap?

With such a limited timeframe for production, you would think a low-budget film would go plotless out of sheer convenience. While McNelly's previous short, gravida, centered around a simple scenario, Blanc de Blanc adds a bit of a plot, but chooses to keep the details a mystery. David (Jason Kirsch) shows up in Pittsburgh with the clothes on his back and a backpack full of random junk, and coincidentally keeps bumping into a nurse named Jude (Rachel Shaw). David cooks like a chef and can bust more than a few yoga moves, yet we never learn how he came to master such things. Guarded about his reasons for being in Pittsburgh or anything to do with his past, the traveler remains an enigma, yet Jude still chooses to take him into her home, albeit reluctantly.

All of this develops a lot more naturally than I'd expected. McNelly doesn't force these details into conversations they don't belong in, instead allowing them to flow out of Jude and David's relationship. The film works best, as gravida does, when characters are allowed to sit and have real discussions; the more the characters talk, the more engaging they and the plot become. This is one of the more delightful trends I've noticed in McNelly's work.

A tendency I'd love to see the director drop is his insistence on placing music where it isn't necessary. I wouldn't say he uses it as a crutch, but he seems almost afraid to let a scene or transition pass without turning up the score. As with gravida, his dialogue and directing skills deserve more faith from him, as they're capable of standing up on their own. Many scenes in Blanc de Blanc would strengthen once they lost the music.

Beyond smaller tendencies such as this, McNelly does commit one major mistake. The revealing details of the plot are intentionally withheld, leaving only hints and clues blended into conversations, implications, and looks. There is, however, a seemingly pivotal scene in which an important character emerges, pushing the central relationship to a climactic conflict. While this character's confrontational scene doesn't divulge a whole lot about the still-mysterious plot, the sequence was too much. As you watch the majority of the film reveal its secrets in a subtle and quiet manner, this scene jumps out at you, waving its arms, yelling in your face. It's too broad, blatant, and uninteresting for a film with so many more intriguing moments.

The perfect balance between the plot, the characters, and McNelly's storytelling goals is achieved in a wonderful scene that has David describing to Jude the Masonic-like French ritual of eating ortolan, a small, rare songbird. McNelly patiently holds the camera on his characters as Jason Kirsch expertly delivers the character's symbolic monologue, and with this understated, engaging segment, the director cleverly reveals more of the story's mystery, develops his characters, and just gives you an engrossing, memorable scene.

Compared to this, the plot-heavy confrontational climax (and the emotionally confusing scene that follows) feels even more out of place. Both of these ill-fitting scenes could be removed entirely from the film, and with a little bit of tweaking, Blanc de Blanc would be even more effective. But that brings us back to the issue at hand: is that the type of move you make (or even know to make) when you're trying to shoot and edit a feature film in two weeks? Probably not. Therefore, is it fair to fault McNelly for that? I'm still not sure.

The Twitter challenge serves as an immediate point of interest for Blanc de Blanc; if #2wkfilm gets more people to watch the independent films associated with this task, I'm glad. However, I fear that at the same time, the two week restriction hamstrings filmmakers like McNelly. He will no doubt go on to make stronger films than Blanc de Blanc, but he can still make Blanc de Blanc itself stronger. With a few bold choices and some minor tightening, he could really have something here. So even though #2wkfilm provides a nice identity for his movie, if I were McNelly, I'd at least consider one more editorial pass through Blanc de Blanc after this Twitter challenge has served its purpose. He's just too talented for a handicap this high.

Hopefully recognizing this will quiet some prejudiced "Get a tripod!" Mumblecore naysayers. With limited assets and time, sometimes it makes almost too much sense to shoot handheld.↩

Who Says You Can't Learn Anything From Toys?

pacheco@bohemiancinema.com (Jonathan Pacheco) — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 20:23:00 CST

It's easy to dismiss Toy Story as a comparatively shallow Pixar film. A simple story of friendship pushed along by a lot of colorful action, the movie's virtues seem to pale in comparison to the complexities and subtle implications of Pixar's latter films -- The Incredibles, Ratatouille, WALL•E. Yet in Toy Story's basic themes, I find a level of sophistication and wisdom, an insight sharp enough to find pertinence in the life of someone way beyond the film's target demographic.

The timing of Toy Story's theatrical re-release couldn't have been better. That very week, my perennial lunchmate -- a female, and one of my few real friends at work -- did the kind, welcoming thing, becoming quick friends with the new employee at our small company. Consider me a grown man who has yet to outgrow many of his childhood insecurities, as the new friendship made me nervous. This person was now joining us for lunch, throwing me into full panic mode. To make matters much worse, the shiny new friend happens to be everything I am and more.

Good sense of humor, a writer, loves books and music, knows a few things about good cinema. Plus, she’s a female.

Why the heck would my old friend want to lunch with me when Version 2.0 is already inviting her out to movies after just one week on the job?

That weekend, myself and a group -- including this old friend -- caught the Toy Story 3D double feature. It'd been easily over a decade since I'd seen the first film, so I was surprised to see the movie's plot closely mirror my own circumstances. Woody, his owner Andy's favorite toy, finds himself jealous of the shiny new toy in the room, Buzz Lightyear. As the new object of Andy's affection, Buzz seems to be everything Woody is and so much more. As the sheriff points out, "Why would Andy ever want to play with me when he's got you?"

Is this sounding familiar?

I find it easy to look back at the film and remember it as a pleasant movie about accepting new friends. Woody's resentment for Buzz only subsides after he's spent time in the trenches with the new toy, eventually finding a willingness to accept him into the family known as Andy's Toys.

Yet isn't Woody's insecurity in his relationship with Andy the true problem, rather than how he feels about Buzz? Buzz Lightyear could've been any toy as long as Woody felt he could challenge him for the top spot in Andy's heart. Woody's jealousy stems from his over-protectiveness of his friendship with Andy, to wit, his special position as the boy's best friend. He isn't exhibiting unfriendliness and stubborness so much as he's exhibiting greed, possessiveness, and mistrust. He comes right out and says it to Buzz's face: "You stay away from Andy. He's mine, and no one is taking him away from me." After all these years, Woody still isn't secure in his relationship with Andy, despite all his reassuring talk.

Bo Peep reminds the cowboy that Andy will always carry a special place for him, but the words aren't good enough for Woody because he doesn't believe them in his heart; he doesn't believe them because he doesn't know that his true value lies in his friendship. Instead, Woody bases his self-worth and identity on his previously unchallenged "status" as Andy's favorite toy -- a shaky foundation for one's self-image.

I had no issues with this new person at my job; I too thought she was great. No, in reality, I feared losing the friendship and "status" I had with my old friend, which immediately indicates that, like Woody, I didn't know my own worth and lacked that essential trust with my buddy that I assumed I had. If I had it, there'd be no need to feel threatened, regardless of who came along.

Toy Story's solution to Woody's issues gets a little confusing. At a basic level, the film teaches you that simply making friends with the one you feel threatened by alleviates your insecurities. When Woody finally befriends Buzz and accepts him as one of the gang, the animosity disappears. But wait, how does that make sense? Woody can "accept" Buzz all he wants, but the problem still exists in the Woody-Andy relationship, not necessarily in the Woody-Buzz one.

Ah, but the epiphanies strike early on in Toy Story. By the end of the film, one can forget that the opening scenes and song focused on the rock-solid lifetime friendship between Woody and Andy. Furthermore, the defining moment unexpectedly arrives when Woody sheepishly looks at the bottom of his boot to see his owner's faded Sharpie branding, which seems to pale in comparison to Buzz's freshly inked label. However, this is the very moment I realized, Buzz Lightyear or no Buzz Lightyear, there will always be an "Andy and Woody."

Couple that with Buzz's eventual realization that he's more than a worthless toy because he's Andy's toy (finding value not in his "status" as a Space Ranger, but in the importance of his friendship), and together, these insights exhibit Toy Story's unexpected wisdom, revealing to me truths I admittedly should have known by now. The new friend at work hadn't done anything wrong, but her presence exposed a flaw in my relationship that needed fixing. Instead of creating a solid, trusting friendship, I unknowingly built one partially around possessiveness and mistrust, and got away with it because there was no one there to expose me. That is, until Woody and Buzz came along.

The 400 Births: A Video Essay

pacheco@bohemiancinema.com (Jonathan Pacheco) — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 07:00:00 CST

A video essay (my first), exploring the similarities between the ending of François Truffaut's The 400 Blows and the beginning and ending of Jonathan Glazer's 2004 film, Birth. Based on an old essay of mine, The 400 Births.