Sundance: Day Eight

Neil Young: Heart of Gold (Jonathan Demme, USA): 57

Standard-issue concert doc, absent the formal experimentation Demme employed with the Heads and Hitchcock. New material remarkably good; catalog selections a little heavy on Harvest (probably my least favorite canonical N. Young platter). Although I must say that the closer to Fogeyville Young gets, the more poignant his rendition of "Old Man" becomes.

The Science of Sleep (Michel Gondry, France): 41

Cinema is an inherently oneiric medium, which makes movies that overtly traffic in dream logic the equivalent of a hat on a hat. Frantic bursts of outré imagery notwithstanding, this one is mostly pretty dull, with Gael García Bernal a flavorless Walter Mitty and Charlotte Gainsbourg little more than the dimples across the hall. And while Human Nature didn't really work, at least it had some ideas. This is just whimsy-a-go-go.

TV Junkie (Michael Cain, USA): 48

Might have seemed revelatory had it been assembled prior to Capturing the Friedmans and Tarnation; alas, this particular media-age pathology is now beginning to feel a bit stale. Still, Kirkham's life from 1993-98 was such a gruesome train wreck that I felt compelled to stay with him, if only out of morbid curiosity. And it's not often that you're privy to other people's rationalizations even as they're in the process of being formed.

Madeinusa (Claudia Llosa, Peru): W/O

Sometimes I regret not even glancing at the blurb in the program book. Turns out the title is the protagonist's name. Enough said, I trust.

The Illusionist (Neil Burger, USA): 45

Clearly mediocre right from the get-go -- it's the sort of overly emphatic, plot-heavy, emotionally hollow story that you usually find in bus-station spinner racks -- but I got sucked in anyway just because, well, I dig magic. (Ricky Jay was a consultant, and I once saw him perform one of the tricks featured in this film.) If you can't guess the ending halfway through, you're not trying very hard, which incidentally puts you in good company with Ms. Jessica Biel.

Sundance: Day Seven

Old Joy (Kelly Reichardt, USA): 80

This is one of those films I'd rather not talk too much about, for fear of ruining the experience for others. (Not that anyone's likely to see it -- hands up, everyone who saw Reichardt's equally terrific River of Grass in its initial commercial run.) I'll just say (a) that this is the movie I wanted Blissfully Yours to be, and (b) that afterwards I was so choked up I couldn't eat, even though my stomach was rumbling for the entire 83 minutes. Oh, and also (c) that I still can't believe that's the preacher kid from Matewan.

In Between Days (So Yong Kim, USA): 68

Country of origin is accurate but misleading -- this feels very much like a Korean film, albeit closer in spirit to the hormonal adolescent fumbling of (say) the Doinel series than to Park, Kim, & Co. Delicate and nuanced, with the ambiguous central friendship-cum-romance handled quite deftly; I don't get the comparison to Funny Ha Ha, whose characters are inarticulate in a completely different (i.e. much more garrulous) way. Sundance oughta be chock-full of movies like this.

This Film Is Not Yet Rated (Kirby Dick, USA): 65

Makes all the arguments you'd expect, but with enough wit and energy that the converted won't mind being preached to. Plus, it's almost as much a procedural about private investigators as it is an expose about the MPAA's secret cabal. The revelation of the appeal board's identities (not the allegedly average parents who decide upon the initial ratings) produced first audible gasps and then incredulous laughter at my screening; it's so ludicrously damning that Dick doesn't even bother commenting upon it. He just immmediately ends the film. Because, really, what else can you say?

Destricted (Matthew Barney/Richard Prince/Larry Clark/Marco Brambilla/Sam Taylor-Wood/Marina Abramovic/Gaspar Noé, USA/UK): 44

But here, lemme break it down for ya.

"Hoist" (Barney): D+ [Just plain silly. The last thing this dude needs is an opportunity to literalize his sexual preoccupations.]

"House Call" (Prince): D ["In his signature style," sez here. If this is what he does, sign me up for some more Ken Jacobs.]

"Impaled" (Clark): C+ [Absolute genius, so long as you also believe Ed Powers to be America's preeminent artistic figure.]

"Sync" (Brambilla): B+ [This dude should never be allowed to make a film longer than two minutes ever again ever.]

"Death Valley" (Taylor-Wood): A- [Hilarious Sisyphean gag, best enjoyed with a rowdy audience -- mine eventually started clapping along in time.]

"Balkan Erotic Epic" (Abramovic): C+ [Scattershot sketch comedy; animated bits stand out.]

"Babysitter" (Noé): D- [So unbelievably pretentious and stupid that it makes me want to retract my high opinion of his previous work.]

Sundance: Day Six

Okay, it's back to Toronto-style drive-by one-liners.

A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints (Dito Montiel, USA): 52

Works reasonably well as straight-ahead memoir -- it's the present-day framing story, with its noxious air of commingled self-satisfaction (hey looka me!) and self-pity (survivor's guilt), that leaves a sour taste. Plus it's simply impossible to believe that Shia LaBoeuf could ever grow up to become Robert Downey, Jr. (whereas I had no trouble accepting Rosario Dawson as an adult Melonie Diaz). Q: Were tough Astoria street kids really listening to "Moments in Love" in 1986?

Subject Two (Philip Chidel, USA): 55

Memorably creepy daylight-horror film (set in the Colorado mountains) bolstered by two pitch-perfect lead performances -- there's a certain kind of off-kilter acting style that would register as amateurish in a "normal" movie but somehow becomes incredibly gripping in the context of a tacky low-budget genre exercise. Gets a tad pretentious near the end, and I could have done without the twist ending, but well worth a look for fans of the psychotronic.

Little Miss Sunshine (Jonathan Dayton & Valerie Faris, USA): W/O

Blech. Bilge warned me that the comedy here is entirely predicated on what I long ago dubbed The Fallacy of the Profane Granny, and boy was he not kidding. Reliable reports indicate there's some genuinely funny stuff about child beauty pageants in the third act, but you'll have to endure a vanload of curdled quirkiness to get to it. I wouldn't even have bothered, really, except that last year's big-ticket sale/mainstream-press darling(Hustle & Flow) turned out to be surprisingly tolerable (and featured two of my Voice poll votes for 2005's best performances). Still, lesson learned: I'm typing this during the press screening for The Night Listener.

Right at Your Door (Chris Gorak, USA): 49

Starts off gripping, but turns pointless and mundane by almost imperceptible degrees, so that it's only at the very end that you realize you've been had. (And here's another lame twist ending.) It does suggest, however, that Rory Cochrane may have developed into an actor worth watching -- I wouldn't even have recognized him from Dazed and Confused, which so far as I know is the last time I saw him.

Wild Tigers I Have Known (Cam Archer, USA): W/O

If Conor Oberst directed a movie. Shot and projected on video, so no reel changes, but I bailed about 37 minutes in, right after the sensitive boy protag wrote I JUST WANT TO BE LOVED... across his torso in bright red lipstick. Yes, that's so wrong.

Sundance: Day Five

A paltry two-film day, due to extra-festival deadlines plus my lack of interest in virtually everything that was press-screened. Tried to rush a public screening of Wild Tigers I Have Known, missed getting in by one (1) seat.

Puccini for Beginners (Maria Maggenti, USA): 34

I was about to compare this to a typical episode of "Sex and the City," but I saw a handful of those and they weren't anywhere near this dopey and contrived. Never mind the central ludicrousness of our heroine falling into bed unawares with both halves of a newly split hetero couple (neither of whom apparently ever even once in passing mentions the name of his/her most recent ex) -- has any movie in cinema history hinged on so many chance meetings? In Manhattan, no less, where for example I've run into my ex-girlfriend Regina exactly once in the past five years or so? Sorry, but having a passing extra mutter "Freud claimed there's no such thing as coincidence" ain't gonna cut it. Might be ignorable if the movie were funny, but at best it's sitcom cute. And here's Justin Kirk as the romantic male lead again, and lovers pulling the sheets up to their necks immediately following sex. Ugh.

Quinceañera (Richard Glatzer & Wash Westmoreland, USA): 60

Again, familiar territory, but it benefits from being set in a little-seen milieu: the Hispanic community of L.A.'s Echo Park. And while Glatzer & Westmoreland's The Fluffer felt clumsy and stilted, here they seem in total command of their material, coaxing fine, naturalistic performances from an inexperienced cast and letting the drama accrue from a series of unforced observations. Puzzling emphasis on the elderly uncle in the final reel retroactively explained by closing dedication.

Sundance: Day Four

Half Nelson (Ryan Fleck, USA): 71

On paper, I'm sure this would look laughably schematic: idealistic middle-school history teacher and girls' basketball coach by day, crumbling basehead by night. Fleck, cowriter-editor Anna Boden and (especially) Ryan "never a false note" Gosling sell it, though, with invaluable assists from preternaturally assured newcomer Shareeka Epps and potential Best Supporting Actor Skandie champ Anthony Mackie. (You guys sure She Hate Me sucks that hard?) Only a few forgivable rookie mistakes hold it back from near-greatness (otherwise known as my increasingly rare B+): too-pointed cross-cutting between teacher and student, occasionally jerky rhythms, a climactic encounter that goes just a wee bit over the top. But just the incredulous look on Gosling's face when he catches one of his charges blatantly cheating ("What're you doing?"), or the way he leans out his car window and tosses off an obligatory, halfhearted "Bitch!" when Epps calls him an asshole and walks away, are enough to make such niggling flaws seem all but irrelevant.

Stephanie Daley (Hilary Brougher, USA): 44

[WARNING: There are some spoilers here. I got exasperated. It's not really that kind of movie, but proceed at your own risk.]

Sorry, but this one is laughably schematic, both on paper and onscreen. How many parallels can we draw between accused baby-killer Stephanie and the chilly forensic psychologist appointed by the prosecutor's office to examine her? Would two dozen be enough, or will viewers still not get the hint? It's not too terribly contrived if the psychologist is both pregnant and still reeling from a recent stillbirth, is it? How about if we posit that she refused to name the infant and chucked its ashes out the window of a moving car? Or, oh, you know what we could do? We could have both women cut their hands! I think McKee would call that an image system -- it greatly increases the complexity of an aesthetic emotion. And let's save the grueling bathroom-stall birth sequence for the very end, in order to make it seem as exploitative and Jodie-Foster-crying-on-the-pool-table as possible. Matter of fact, let's obliterate any trace of the inventive, idiosyncratic Hilary Brougher who made The Sticky Fingers of Time and fashion something that would look entirely credible with Jonathan Kaplan's name attached to it. That'd be good.

Flannel Pajamas (Jeff Lipsky, USA): 48

About a year ago, I wrote a piece for Esquire arguing that American movies could use a lot more incidental nudity -- that verisimilitude, should that be your goal, demands an acknowledgment that in real life people frequently don't have clothes on, even if they're not having sex or taking a shower at that particular moment. Shortly after its publication, I received a lengthy voicemail message from Jeff Lipsky*, thanking me profusely for speaking truth to power and whatnot. I don't even know how he got my number, frankly. After seeing Flannel Pajamas, though, I can see why he felt he'd found a kindred spirit: This is one of the most admirably frank depictions of a romantic relationship I've ever seen in an English-language film. (I never imagined I'd hear an actress as wholesome-looking as Julianne Nicholson say the words "I'm dripping.") Trouble is, I never remotely bought these two people as a couple, partly because I find Justin Kirk unaccountably irritating -- he was a large part of the reason I couldn't get through Mike Nichols' Angels in America -- but mostly because their personalities screamed "train wreck" right from scene one. Which you could argue is precisely the point, given the film's dispiriting narrative arc (think 5 x 2 in normal chronological order, with many more scenes)...but their initial infatuation still needs to be credible, and instead it comes off merely as a writer's fabrication (which is also a massive problem in the Ozon, but never mind). In other words, intent good, execution not so much. But I'm grateful to Kirk and Nicholson for their candor. Sets a good example.

* (who's better known as a distribution exec than as a filmmaker; he'd pilloried me in the past for dissing various Lot 47 releases, notably Atanarjuat: The Fast Runner and L.I.E. -- reputedly going so far as to claim that my negative review of the latter could only mean that I was sexually molested as a child [!])

Sundance: Day Three

Sherrybaby (Laurie Collyer, USA): 55

Familiar territory, especially coming so soon after Assayas' Clean -- this Maggie gets naked more frequently, has a slightly cuter moppet to fight for, and needs to regain the trust of a brother rather than a father-in-law. Performances are terrific across the board, though, and the film works reasonably well scene by scene; even the obligatory why-she's-so-fucked-up explanation, while disappointingly pat, is handled with more finesse than we're accustomed to in movies like this. I don't ever need to hear Ms. Gyllenhaal sing again, however. "Honesty" and "Eternal Flame" are sufficient for one career.

Stay. (Bobcat Goldthwait, USA): 69

Simply astonishing. I am in awe. So much so, in fact, that I'm now sorely tempted to investigate Shakes the Clown, lest that, too, turn out to be a misunderstood quasi-masterpiece. Any filmmaker eager to offend middlebrow sensibilities could have made a movie about the repercussions that ensue when a nice young woman (Melinda Page Hamilton, in a miraculously naturalistic performance) confesses to having once blown her dog. But it takes a fantastically demented mind and crazy fucking courage (plus arguably an artistic death wish) to conceive of such a ludicrous, revolting scenario and then pitch it as Goldthwait does here -- not (primarily) as sick black comedy, but as a serious, often downright earnest treatise on the potential pitfalls of exposing every crevice of your past and soul to those you love. Yes, there are gags, but a disquieting sweetness and sincerity lurk beneath the admittedly juvenile surface. If only Bobcat-the-director had the chops to really pull it off. Wobbly tone and ass-ugly videography notwithstanding, though, I don't expect to see a more incisive film about long-term romantic relationships this year. Seriously.

Steel City (Brian Jun, USA): 49

I don't have anything to say about this one. It's fine. I just never connected with it. No particular flaws that I can point to, but nothing remotely inspired, either. I will have no memory of Steel City a year from now, guaranteed.

The Aura (Fabián Bielinsky, Argentina): 40

No way in hell is this one getting a doggedly faithful American remake -- Hollywood could keep a passel of script doctors hopping for months just injecting some personality into the tediously recessive protagonist (an epileptic taxidermist? talk about desperately grasping for metaphor) and whittling down the obscenely bloated 134-minute running time. And if you're going to retain one of the leads from Nine Queens, for god's sake make it Gastón Pauls, not Ricardo Darín.

Sundance: Day Two

13 (Gela Babluani, France): 35

This movie's stupid. Gritty b&w 'Scope cinematography and nonstop portent got me excited for a couple of reels; alas, the payoff, when it arrives, is little more than Intacto as conceived by somebody with no imagination. Human life is cheap, fate is cruelly ironic, ho-hum. Nice to see Aurélien Recoing as a full-tilt badass, though.

Open Window (Mia Goldman, USA): W/O

Oh, look, it's the best day of Robin Tunney's whole entire life. She's just gotten engaged; her mojo in the darkroom has returned; every scene is an occasion for yet another radiant smile. Is her fiancé about to be hit by a car, or will she soon be brutally raped? (A: She will soon be brutally raped.) Oh, look, traumatized Robin just opened the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet in her bathroom. When she closes it again, will her assailant, now visible in the mirror, actually be in the room, or will she merely have imagined that her assailant, now visible in the mirror, is in the room? (A: He's now visible in the mirror, but not actually in the room.) Oh, look, here comes the tiny dot in the upper-right-hand corner of the screen signifying the splice between reel two and reel three. Will your faithful correspondent sit through the remainder of this wan exercise in gender studies, or will he bail, grab some quick Chinese and get a couple blurbs out of the way? (A: Hi.)

Wordplay (Patrick Creadon, USA): 65

Amiable portrait of New York Times crossword editor Will Shortz, clearly riding the coattails of recent little-doc-that-could Spellbound -- same emphasis on language, same gaggle of endearingly nerdy eccentrics, same nationally competitive climax. (Few things are less cinematic than puzzle-solving; fortunately, the 2005 championship hinged on a catastrophic error. Truly heartbreaking.) Hard to imagine a doc on this subject that I wouldn't warm to, though Creadon does his damndest to make the film trivially "accessible," wasting copious screen time on various crossword-loving celebs: Jon Stewart, Bill Clinton, Mike Mussina, even the freakin' Indigo Girls. I'd much rather hang with ace puzzle constructor Merl Reagle, the kind of guy who, driving by a Dunkin’ Donuts, points out that moving the first ‘d’ to word’s end results in Unkind Donuts. "I've had a few of those in my time."

Somebodies (Hadjii, USA): 39

Two episodes of a mediocre sketch-comedy show ineptly pasted together. Scattered bits work, particularly the fire-and-brimstone minister and his hilariously stoic sidekick; most of it's painfully unfunny, though, and Hadjii himself evinces little talent either in front of or behind the camera. Occasional cutaways to a guitar-playing street performer only made me wish "Chappelle's Show" were still around.

Sundance Day One, or: Let the Grumbling Begin.

But before I get started, I need to refuse to make two apologies.

Non-Apology the First: For this being my first blog entry in over three months. Trust me, you've all been much better off with me keepin' my big yap shut. What happened is this: Not long after coming to the conclusion that the world as we currently understand it will shortly do the same (see below), I fell in love. Plummeted, more like. This is not a phrase that I toss off lightly, as a host of perfectly wonderful women will readily confirm. So far, in 37 years 9 months and 11 days, it's happened to me precisely twice. And when it does, not much else matters, or frankly even registers. Even now, I'm so wrapped up in Cuteness Incarnate that I can scarcely function; only my internment in Park City for the next ten days allows me to devote a little energy hereabouts. Had I been posting for the last couple months, most entries would have consisted of little more than pathetic, lovestruck mewling. I chose to spare you. You're welcome.

Non-Apology the Second: For the slew of sub-60 ratings that will now commence. Shut the fuck up. Most movies are not that good. Most [pretty much any imaginable plural noun] are not that good. Yes, my standards are ridiculously high. Yes, 40% of the retarded 100-point scale is an arid wasteland as I employ it. Deal. Cope. Or get lost. If you want to read somebody who gives at least three out of four stars to anything that's projected marginally in focus, Ebert's reports are available right over here.

Still with me? Okay, onward.

(Except now I find I actually do need to apologize: For the alleged bullet points you'll find heading each movie. Flowers? Jesus. I'll fix it later.)

Fri 20

Lucky Number Slevin (Paul McGuigan, USA): 54

Better than its title, but obviously that ain't sayin' much. My crotchety rep notwithstanding, I tend to go pretty easy on this sort of hollow, twisty-turny thriller, so long as it's reasonably clever and the cast seems to be having a good time. This one boasts a Big Twist that's almost painfully transparent (unless you believe that professional assassins really do distract their targets via hecka-long, convoluted anecdotes that will surely have no bearing on subsequent events), and McGuigan & Co., eager to distract us from the film's core emptiness, very nearly art-direct the thing into the dirt -- one overhead shot of a parking lot features an array of vehicles so expertly color-coordinated they could be photoshopped right into a Kelly-Moore spread, and let's not even get into the freakin' wallpaper. Plus then of course there's the whole nagging who-really-cares? issue. Still, I must admit that it held my attention throughout, thanks largely to brisk pacing, a smattering of sharp one-liners and deft double-takes, and Lucy Liu at her most fetching ever. She arguably out-Drews Drew.

It's Only Talk (Ryuichi Hiroki, Japan): 43

For a while, I felt moderately guilty about having walked out of Vibrator at Rotterdam. Not anymore. Starts off beautifully, with evocative, loose-limbed shots of the heroine wandering her new neighborhood, digital camera in tow; once it becomes clear that she's afflicted with manic depression, however, the film slowly degenerates into -- yes, I'm afraid I must -- a frustrating mess. Dialogue scenes are deadly, with the camera either inexpressively static or drifting around with no apparent rhyme or reason; the protagonist's emotional cul-de-sac serves as a potent reminder that repetition - humor = tedium. And maybe it had something to do with the festival catalog erroneously shaving nearly half an hour off of its 125-minute running time, but man did this sucker draaaaag. Two weeks from now, all I'll likely remember is the tire park (including giant steel-belted Godzilla) and the lead actress, who in manic mode evinces a welcome hint of Moon So-ri.

Iraq in Fragments (James Longley, USA): W/O

Longley's impressionistic approach is undeniably refreshing in an age when most documentary filmmakers have zero interest in aesthetics. After 15 minutes, though, I felt like I'd already seen everything the movie had to offer; even when it switched locales and subjects (not long before I bailed), I had no sense that these particular shards of quotidian existence were adding up to anything. Or, to put it another way, there seemed to be no reason why this film needed to be 90 minutes long (as opposed to 20 minutes or six hours), except that that's how long commercially-viable feature films tend to be. Plus I was nodding off, so heck with it.

The Peter Pan Formula (Cho Chang-Ho, South Korea): 48

"This is like third rate Kim Ki-duk," I thought to myself (making sure to also mentally flip the bird to the Rayns Brigade, who would consider such a designation redundant). Score! Turns out Cho's been an assistant to Kim dating all the way back to Birdcage Inn. He's got enough of an eye that I'm prepared to give him at least one more chance, but nothing in this directorial debut makes a lick of emotional sense; it reminded me of my high-school efforts at writing short stories, which were invariably crammed with pretentious faux-symbolism cynically designed to create the appearance of Meaning.