With Daniel Eustace Cockburn and Demetre “Thunderdome” E. in attendance, it was contended that we should watch a movie where a bunch of drunk Irish people try to evade sea monsters (Grabbers), followed by a romantic comedy in which Gary Oldman played a dwarf (Tiptoes). These were not, strictly speaking, Good Ideas, but hey, you only live once.
Prior to the movies I tried to have a conversation with Daniel about why I don’t need movies to be good (using Monsters as collateral) but it was a non-starter. Better to have stuck to the original pre-show entertainment, which was this crazy shit:Read more
I have a lot of thoughts about the Fast and the Furious franchise. The movies have given me so much over the years, doubly valuable in that they never really required me to actually see any of them to get at the goods. My mind is a getaway car. I only started watching Fast movies at #4, and those only once, and only in theatres, and only (if possible) in another country. The Fast and the Furious doesn’t belong to, or in, Canada. And each of those movies, Fasts 4-6, was exactly what it was: something less than halfway appealing, that I didn’t particularly understand. I figured I’d get around to watching Fasts 1-3 someday, or never, and that either way, it wouldn’t matter much. The bling is all on the outside.Read more
1. If that’s the roster for Season 2 above, have at it. Three ladies to two fellas, and one of the fellas is Agent Triplet.
2. There has never been a more welcome return than Patton “Billy Koenig” Oswalt. H/T to the A/V: I hope they kill him every week.
3. There has never been a more welcome blowing-up-of-a-dude than Bill “Crazy Eyes” Paxton.
4. It was an episode light on feels, but don’t get me started about when Fury called Coulson an Avenger. Oh shit here I go again
5. Suck it, haters, I think Skye’s the best character on the show and Chloe Bennett’s the best actress. That said, I won’t turn down a lot of Hermione/Trip action next season.
6. One presumes Agent Carter may now preoccupy itself entirely with the early, idealistic foundation of S.H.I.E.L.D. - “protection” - while Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. deals with Protection 2.0. (Did I mention I am really looking forward to Agent Carter.)
7. “You were never on top.”
8. “I know what it does.”
Demetre “Thunderdome” Eliopoulos, who once cracked physics by implanting audio into the center of an otherwise-silent video file like the cough syrup in the center of a Nyquil lozenge, had his two-pronged one-minute film project More Things / One More Thing - starring moi - serve as the bookends of this month’s Shorts That Are Not Pants screening. James asked me to host a Q&A with Demetre after the screening, and I spent the darkened hour of the shorts programme composing my intended questions. I’ve never understood the two films, so I took the opportunity to ask Demetre the following:Read more
Before each movie at the festival, they play a one-minute clip of Roger Ebert talking about the value of film. The clip is supported with grainy, VHS-ish clips I didn’t recognize, and initially took to potentially be stock footage from an old documentary about life in another country. It took me a day or two to realize that the girl in the head scarf who turns up in two or three shots must be Wadjda; and that being the case, the rest of the clips must be from Ebertfest movies too. Yesterday, we finally caught up to the movies that formed the spine of our visual prelude to the festival. Solo and his stepdaughter in Goodbye Solo. Roger wheeling about with his elder maid in A Simple Life. And, of course, that shot of Wadjda.
I loved the shot on its own terms all week; the girl’s unabashed smile, her tangled hair flowing out the bottom of her scarf. The brilliant moment of arriving at it in context, in the eponymous film, thereby seeing it again for the first time, bigger and brighter and resonating like a bell. Wadjda is a film of found moments built on the beguiling watchability of its young, lead actress; but it is also a great work of cinema, in which director Haifaa Al-Mansour finds a knot of transcendent images that elevate the film beyond its words or its story and into a world of clear visual joy. A line of girls’ feet, all wearing plain shoes, parting to reveal a pair of beaten black Converse with purple laces; a bike, flying, glimpsed over a wall, moving so fast as to be heart-stopping. And her hair. Something about that riot of Waad Mohammed’s dark hair, which never entirely ends up contained beneath her scarf - or at least, never for long.
All the more astonishing, then, to learn in the Q&A that not only is Wadjda the first Saudi Arabian feature film directed by a woman, but the first Saudi Arabian feature film at all; and that its having been made under scrutiny meant that Al-Mansour had to direct the film, concealed, from the back of a van. Under those circumstances I think it’s miraculous that the film looks like anything at all, let alone that it comes together so beautifully. It is full of beautiful words from ugly circumstances. “A woman’s voice is her nakedness,” Wadjda’s teacher cautions her when she is being too loud. Later, in the film’s showstopper scene, Wadjda has won a Koran reading competition and reveals guilelessly that she will use the prize money to buy a bike - forbidden for girls in her country - and the same teacher spits, “Your stupid behaviour will haunt you forever.” In that moment, I believe her: and the words sound more like a blessing than a curse.
And in terms of blessings, Wadjda’s mother, having foregone propriety and brought home the bike anyway, in an embrace with her daughter that is framed by fireworks: “I want you to be the happiest person in the world.”
I hope to have many more of life’s major undertakings - at least one of them involving an oath like that - before the ones captured in A Simple Life, which I admit I gave the least amount of credit going in, of all the films in the festival. Saturday was a packed day, four films with short turns between them, and I wasn’t convinced I wanted to push myself through a quiet Hong Kong-made film about a family’s elderly maid who, upon suffering a stroke, promptly retires and moves to a nursing home. But the film is marvellously made. It is amazing watching a whole family, blood-related and not, evolve into being over the course of the film, from two people (at the outset) alone in an apartment, who barely even speak to one another. Roger, played by Andy Lau, begins to take care of the woman who spent her life taking care of him; and through that caregiving, we see an entire life erupt before our eyes like a field of flowers. And it’s funny, boy, and humbly sweet. I had never encountered the director or the lead actress, Ann Hui and Deannie Yip respectively. I’ll seek them out now.
We tempted the Mexican beast at Dos Reales once again (much better choices on my part this time, involving chorizo tacos) and drove back to the theatre through gales of laughter after Price set up, and delivered, a fuckin’ joke (!). The closing night film was Born on the Fourth of July, pitched at so high a volume that its first ten minutes were among the most excruciating I’ve spent in a cinema. Either someone found the volume knob or enough of my eardrum was killed to make the subsequent two hours at least liveable, and I got something of a mad thrill out of watching vulgar auteur Oliver Stone’s mad action film play out in front of a startled Ebertfest crowd, who gasped as one when Tom Cruise took his bullet to the chest. (OK, no one would describe Oliver Stone as a vulgar auteur, or Born on the Fourth of July as an action film. But in a lot of ways, I think he’s the source of the Nile on the whole thing. He’s Michael Bay, ten years early; and watching his trashily lurid Vietnam sequences play out like exploding hothouse tomatoes in front of that aghast crowd made me wish the whole movie were just a shameless, jungle-set exploitation movie instead of a shameless, exploitative whatever-the-fuck-that-was.)
It’s all (or most of it anyway) an effort to draw a connection between Tom Cruise’s functionless penis and the effect of Vietnam on America, as near as I can tell; enough so, at least, that Cruise ends up shouting “PENIS, MOM, PENIS!” at his mother during a drunken rant when his willpower has been well and truly broken. Later, he visits a magical Mexican whorehouse where, impotence notwithstanding, he can at least cunniling (v.?) his way to some recovered sense of manhood, with an indulgent prostitute with magnificent breasts who telepathically understands everything this broken marine needs - and might well, since she apparently runs a local cottage industry in the sexual satisfaction of veteran quadriplegics. But on the connection between America and a sensationless dick, there’s at least one thing awry: “I never even got a chance to learn how to use it before it was gone in some jungle,” Cruise laments, and if WWII wasn’t that country’s Maximum Boner, I don’t know what was. The American legal requirement of stating all of the side effects verbally at the end of each commercial makes television ads for erectile dysfunction remedies a hilarious exercise in managing expectations; but I step outside my door every morning, and the air is so fresh and sweet that I can’t help but wonder why anyone in this country ever needs to eat, let alone dose their flagging prick with pills. But it was a dark winter back in Toronto, and out here in an emerging springtime - cherry blossoms and all - I finally feel awake and alive.
Packing up. Off home. Pancakes and Bayou Majarajah on the way out of town and then, blissfully, the road.
Two episodes of Mamo! in the can yesterday, to be posted Tuesday and Wednesday respectively. The first was a brisk and jovial affair recorded in the seats of the front row balcony of the Virginia Theatre; the second, three movies later, a gregariously punch-drunk midnight conversation at Steak n’ Shake which involved numerous, liberal shots at McNeil. Otherwise, most of the hours yesterday were spent in the blissful dark.
Is it so long since I’ve seen a film on actual film? When Capote started, the foggy focus and juddering frame nearly made me seasick. How un-acclimatized to all this have I become? Both Capote and Do the Right Thing (and possibly He Who Gets Slapped) were screened on celluloid, and it took a while for my brain to reorganize itself to accept the image as real. And then, at least, the dividends: the reminder that only 35mm can capture a sleeping New York in ten thousand shades of twilight that range between cobalt and smoke; the bright red punch across the jaw of Do The Right Thing’s opening dance number, which throbs with sweaty, non-electric energy.
Both films are marvels. All three, actually. It is a day of marvels. The collective gasp and marrow-deep thrill, at the start of the silent film He Who Gets Slapped, of seeing the MGM lion sway his head to and fro, glaring at all of us, but never roaring, because why would the lion need to roar in the pre-sound era? And, coincidentally or not (He Who Gets Slapped was MGM’s first neck-to-nuts in-house feature film), the climax involving a circus clown’s vengeance by way of THE most pissed off lion I’ve ever seen, which is set upon two villains and, in some canny examples of trick editing, pounces on, and murders, them both. Some surprisingly modern jokes - “I hate clowns,” the evil baron proclaims when HE is having some surreptitious laughs at his expense; “I hate barons,” the clown promptly returns - and one transcendently beautiful image, as Norma Shearer (and by the way, hubba hubba) sews the heart back onto the clown’s costume, chatting brightly as he looks quietly down on her hair, her face, keeping his feelings closer inside.
In Capote, the extraordinary performance by Hoffman, yes; but the extraordinary performance by Clifton Collins Jr., too, who is outstanding in everything I’ve ever seen him in (even Star Trek) and somehow never ends up on my internal list of the great character actors, or even - to my shame - those whose name I can routinely call to mind. I spent his confession sequence leaned forward in my chair, breath held; the shattering punctuations of violence throughout like a gasp the audience was afraid to take.
In Do The Right Thing, the best sex scene that never involved any actual sex, as Mookie (Spike Lee) cools every inch of Tina (Rosie Perez)’s body with drooling ice cubes, thank god aloud for each and every one of them, from knee to elbow, right nipple to left nipple. Spike Lee afterwards, being asked insane and inane questions by the audience - “Spike, in the film you present a number of issues of all these people failing to come together; what do you propose as a solution?”; Spike, mercifully, refusing to solve the problem of racial prejudice live onstage at the Virginia Theatre. Outside, we find Keith Stanfield from Short Term 12 having a cigarette, and - as in the film - he’s a marvel. We talk to him about Do The Right Thing and his next project for a few minutes before drifting off into the night. It is quiet and peaceful. Earlier in the day, a lobbed joke about the senior citizenry of the audience catches the ear, and ire, of an octogenarian who is more awake at her age than I’ve been for the last fifteen years, who promptly takes me by the arm and scolds me, to giddy laughter from everyone around us, and her, and me. She mentions she’s just celebrated her sixtieth wedding anniversary. She is the luckiest woman in Illinois, and her husband is the luckiest man.
We are all in love with Brie Larson. We made it over to the second of two panels at the Illini Union in which she was featured, “Reimagining Filmmaking for the Digital Age,” and Larson was surprising and impressive. Admitting that she doesn’t really get “this whole world of texting,” she spoke passionately about the danger of movie theatres being phased out by the intense popular need for instant-gratification media. Going to see a movie in the dark with a large group of people, where you don’t let yourself become distracted by texts, social media, or other external content, is an opportunity for “empathy and meditation” - as lovely a way of putting it as I’ve ever heard. This thought was echoed by others on the panel. In an ever-accelerating world, there’s nothing wrong with movies NOT accelerating. They can serve as a shelter, a coping mechanism; a more contemplative space. I like that a lot.
There’s a one-minute clip of Roger Ebert speaking which precedes all the films at this year’s festival; in it, he describes (as he has done elsewhere) the movies as an “empathy machine.” These ideas, about the movies and their ability to help us relate to and empathize with other human beings of any stripe anywhere in the world, was on my mind a lot yesterday. It didn’t help me out much with Museum Hours, the first feature, but it clocked me square across the jaw with Larson’s feature, Short Term 12. And this is what the film festival experience has always been for me, and why it’s wonderful, and why it’s dangerous - it’s empathy & meditation, three times a day for five days in a row.
It pounds me into emotional meat, which is what it’s supposed to do. I go into that room and the lights go down, and I lean forward in my mental chair and engage as fully as possible with what is being presented to me. I do it more so than I do with other films, because I trust the people who brought this film before me; I trust their imprimatur that “yes, THIS fits within the logic, THIS has a purpose which connects to the purpose of everything we’re doing here.” I engage, and on a movie as good as Short Term 12 (or even Young Adult, which followed, which I’ve seen before but like quite a bit less), I take the emotional ride with Brie Larson’s character, Grace, which is a ride with marvellous peaks and valleys. And then I do it again, and again, and again, and again. Price and I have commented in the past about how film festivals turn us into raw nerves, but it isn’t a bad thing. It merely means the armour gets stripped away for a while, in a safe space, and the content enters. I’ll never live a life like Grace’s, or any of the kids under her charge in Short Term 12. But I did it for an hour or two yesterday. I feel more like a human being today than I did last Thursday.
Or, put another way, “It’s impossible to worry about anything else when you’ve got blood coming out of you.”
Champaign-Urbana remains a lovely thing. I turned the contents of the continental breakfast bar at the hotel into a breakfast sandwich yesterday morning and set off on foot to, as it turned out, the entirely wrong end of town (thanks, iOS Maps!), but the walk back took me through lovely old middle-class neighbourhoods that could have come directly out of Tree of Life. At noon we watched the unveiling of the Roger Ebert statue in front of the Virginia, and while jostling in the queue I nearly tripped backwards over David Bordwell and Kristin Thompson, upon which I exclaimed “Good lord: you wrote my film textbook!” and they both shook my hand for having read it. Bordwell is (of course) talkative and enthusiastic, and he and Thompson are among my all-time heroes, so that was a treat.
I haven’t quite yet learned the lesson of Papa’s and Beers at Actionfest four years ago, and consumed a gigantic Mexican dinner before Young Adult, after which I promptly went into a meat coma. But I got through the movie and enjoyed the heck out of Patton Oswalt’s Q&A which followed, particularly his deft skewering of Susan Wloszczyna’s random-seeming question setups: “John Carpenter directed Hallowe’en. Bees can’t see the colour red. Do you…. ______?” (I resisted the urge to stand up and holler, “Agents of SHIELD: only TWO??”, though I’m starting to regret it.) Earlier, the Q&A for Short Term 12 brought out Larson (with whom we are all, still, in love) and Lakeith Lee Stanfield, who is nothing less than a revelation in the film as Marcus, and was just as much of a revelation on stage. Give that foul-mouthed young man every award possible, now that he has Roger Ebert’s thumb.
A tough, cramped drive down in the back seat of a taxi-yellow Focus, by way of Ann Arbour (Zingerman’s deli, and a particularly excellent breakfast bagel) and Chicago (Calumet Fisheries, and a rough fish n’ chips with red sauce hot enough to peel a cleansing layer off the interior of my sinuses). But my room at the Eastland Suites is excellent and the hotel itself is across the street from a Steak n’ Shake, and with Google telling me it’s a solid one-hour walk to the Virginia Theatre, I set out on foot. I’m out in the sunshine all of five minutes before I remember vividly why it is I do everything I do. After a tough, cramped winter, the legs in my mind finally stretch all the way out. I walk past bungalows, duck ponds and railroad tracks. Life, itself on the streets of Champaign, IL.
The best part of the drive down comes when an unwillingness on both Price and myself’s part to get into a discussion with Fisher on the relative merits of the conclusion of LOST becomes, perhaps, the definitive discussion of the subjectivity of art and - later - the substantial value of criticism that we’ve ever had (with a young critic who seemed to need to hear it - the first part, and the second part - all while in a car, on the way to Ebertfest). I wish, oh I wish, I’d been recording it. Not that Mamo! listeners haven’t heard this before; but this was the Criterion Collection version of that conversation.
By the time I’ve reminded myself that my walking muscles are severely out of shape, I’m in downtown Champaign, and I find my way back to the Aroma Cafe - with the bronze sculpture of a girl reading a book across the street - and tuck into the first chapter of Fall Of Giants after uploading a brace of Instagrams. Price & Fisher join me around 5:30 and we walk over to the Virginia, the temperature dropping rapidly, the line curving around the block. We pick up the usual conversational drifter. By the time we’re inside I’m frozen to the bone and even-more-than-usual happy to be there, but with the organ music playing (“Somewhere Over the Rainbow”) and the crowd of acolytes happily taking their seats under projection images of the life of the festival’s founder, it’s hard not to think of the whole thing as Roger Ebert’s afterlife, dropped into this corner of Illinois. The night’s film is Life, Itself, Steve James’ documentary (based on Ebert’s memoir), and it’s the first time I realize (having spent the last two months laying tracks so furiously in front of an oncoming train that I apparently never had two spare seconds to rub together) that this thing might hit me squarely where I live.
It doesn’t. I’m grateful for that; I’m grateful that the film is like the book, and so joyous in its meandering through the vitality and passion of that man’s life that I cannot view it is anything other than soaring; inspirational; a true act of love. “It was unspeakably romantic,” one of Ebert’s friends says, regarding his young, exuberant life as a journalist - but really, describing everything, the whole thing. The movie made me (not surprisingly) refract all of my own writing through its lens; Ebert was never condescending, never pandering, lessons that I (and really, every single person writing on the internet right now) could do well to take to better account, every time the keyboard starts clacking.
Chaz Ebert, who introduced the screening and the festival, remains a wonder. The last thing the film needs in its final minutes is an extensive re-account of Ebert’s descent into illness circa 2006 and beyond; earlier scenes of him coping with the last few months of his life are far more touching and extraordinary. But as the illness takes shape, Chaz - remarkably - says “He’s very brave, but I’m not,” before going on to prove the opposite. I wonder about this. We find our strength in our true loves, whomever (or whatever) they may be - do we all see the greater courage in that person, regardless of what we have inside?
The requisite Steak n’ Shake run following the movie; I started with the double steakburger and will work my way out to the more elaborate hamburger provinces in the nights to come.
Takeoff is into a fading alabaster sky and then we hit the turbulence; I realize rather late in the game that I’m flying without my good luck charm; and I realize somewhat later than that that I am a really, really superstitious person. No matter. We land in rainy-ass Halifax without incident, find a guy named Matt in the airport and take him with us to the hotel. At the hotel, the wind wails through a crack in my window all night long. It is astonishingly ghostly.Read more
On the flight over to Vancouver I finally get some proper reading done. Takeoff is at 6:50 which means waking at an ungodly 4:30 in the morning for reasons best left to the marginalia, but I scorch through the back two thirds of Divisadero as we gallop over the Rockies. It’s a maddening, enthralling read. I don’t twig to the fact that it will be less of a story than a meta-narrative about how narratives reverberate until it’s too late; I’m invested in the lives of Anna, Coop and Claire right up till they land on an unspecified dead end and the novel jumps fifty years backwards in time and recounts the story of a writer in France before and during the war, and – in the style of an Ondaatje story – the single incandescent love of his life, and how he nearly never noticed he had one.Read more