SIFF Review: The Thief of Bagdad – Re-Imagined by Shadoe Stevens with the Music of E.L.O.

2011 SEATTLE INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL SELECTION!
Unrated
155 minutes

****

 

It was so crazy that it had to work. In 1924, Douglas Fairbanks could never have imagined that his exorbitantly budgeted passion project would one day be improved by a surfer D.J., some sound effects and the music of an electronic classical/rock fusion band. In fact, trying to explain any one of those elements to a pre-talkie film star would be like playing Jimi Hendrix at a 1950’s sock hop. Combined with the comically broad acting of the silent era, a primordial stew of special effects and a little innocuous racial stereotyping, Shadoe Stevens’ re-imagining of “The Thief of Bagdad” is an instant dorm room classic.

If you’re among those who know what people really smoke out of a “water pipe,” you are probably also familiar with the uncanny appropriateness of playing Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon” over a muted “Wizard of Oz.” Like many people of my generation who had a fridge full of beer and too much time on our hands, my college roommate and I loved to test this concept with other combinations. (For the record, the best results were The Beastie Boys with the “Scooby Doo” cartoon and Muse with “Mothra.”) Legendary radio D.J., Shadoe Stevens has taken this party trick one step further with “The Thief of Bagdad,” a film that is very close to his heart. In the 1970s, he set out on a thirty-year mission to find a soundtrack that “would do justice to the astonishing visuals” of this technically groundbreaking film. He finally found a perfect fit in the experimental strains of the Electric Light Orchestra. This unexpectedly harmonious marriage of sound and picture astonished even E.L.O.s Jeff Lynne who gave the project his seal of approval.

With an introduction by a pepper-bearded Orson Welles, “Thief” is trippy right out of the gate. Welles sits in near-profile in front of a red backdrop. He praises the film’s art direction and Douglas Fairbank’s performance, addressing the audience with the unnerving casualness of a drunken uncle. And with that, we’re transported to a 1920s Hollywood interpretation of a lively Arab berg.

Douglas Fairbanks plays the titular thief, a man with fuzzy morals who spends his days parkouring all over the city and stealing everything that he can get his hands on. He and his flamboyant accomplice plot to rob the palace, just as the princess begins accepting suitor applications. The thief seizes this opportunity to gain access to the palace, assuming the airtight identity of “Prince Ahmed, Prince of the Isles, of the Seas and of the Seven Palaces.” Meanwhile, an evil Mongolian (is there any other kind?) prince plots to conquer the city. The story only gets more convoluted from there, introducing tons of giant monsters, magical objects within magical objects and a quest to find the finest jewel in order to win the princess’ hand in marriage.

Until now, the only silent films I’d seen were the broad comedies of Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton. So I was quite taken aback to discover that their performances weren’t considered broad. That was just acting. Actors had to convey everything with just a few lines per scene. Lines that no one even heard them say. It was perfectly natural to express hunger by circling a hand in front of your tummy or to scratch your palms to indicate a desire to steal something. How could one identify the bad guy if they didn’t slink around and literally shift their eyes? As the princess, Julianne Johnston is a master of hand-to-forehead acting.

The facts surrounding the production of “The Thief of Bagdad” are almost as remarkable as the film itself. Douglas Fairbanks was the world’s first movie star, known for swashbuckling roles in films like “The Three Musketeers” and “Robin Hood.” For him, “Thief” was a dream realized. He starred, produced, co-wrote and financed the film. He also did his own stunts, including riding free-style on a “magic carpet” constructed of sheet metal, cables and cranes.

Speaking of scenery, you can see every penny of the (then exorbitant) $2 million budget on screen. There are lavish palaces and halls, bustling bazaars populated by hundreds of extras and giant beasts galore (my favorite is a killer chimpanzee in a diaper). They must have spent thousands on large, empty clay pots as the streets are littered with them. Characters hide in them constantly. They figure heavily into elaborate chase scenes. The Thief’s cohort even carries around a clay pot disguise to remain unassuming whilst standing guard. In movie Bagdad, there is nothing more commonplace than a large clay pot.

One of the most lavish expenses is also one of the film’s funniest moments. They follow up a threat to boil someone in oil with a shot of an immense, extravagantly adorned chalice. A man stands on a ladder next to the chalice, stirring the boiling oil. He pauses to wave and gesture to the oil, thus corroborating the threat. There’s at least a couple hundred dollars right there. In an age in which films are often guilty of telling more than showing, it’s weird to think that the pioneers of the medium had the opposite problem.

Stevens recently showed the film to an audience at the Seattle International Film Festival. He is shopping the film around to garner interest for the project before he finalizes it with a full film restoration and colorization. In case you’re wondering, you don’t have to be stoned to enjoy this one. Of course, it couldn’t hurt…

Originally published on FilmThreat.com (now defunct). 

May 31, 2011
Categories: Filmpinions, Seattle . Tags: , . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment

SIFF Review: Killing Bono

2011 SEATTLE INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL SELECTION!
Unrated
114 minutes

***

Just hearing the name “Bono” can send me into a fist-shaking rage. So you can imagine how hopeful I was when I first heard the title, “Killing Bono.” Despite having plenty of guns, drugs and danger, the film isn’t really all that dark. It’s only slightly more black a comedy than the most angst-ridden number in “High School Musical.” Still, it’s an enjoyable film, even if the title doesn’t pay off in quite the way I’d hoped.

In 1976 Dublin, a tiny, ambitious lad named Paul Hewson holds a band audition in an equally tiny garage. Paul wants Ivan McCormick to be part of the lineup, but, for some reason, he first runs it by Ivan’s brother, Neil. Neil has already figured Ivan into his own plans for stardom and turns down the offer on Ivan’s behalf. How could he know that Paul Hewson would become Bono and the band, then called The Hype, would become U2? As Neil and Ivan watch U2 become an Irish national treasure, the brothers struggle in obscurity, always overshadowed by the accomplishments of their former schoolmates. All the while, Ivan is completely clueless to the fact that his brother prevented him from joining one of the biggest bands in the world.

For my money, the music of the McCormick Brothers/Shook Up is far superior to that of U2. It’s interesting, edgy and peppered with hints of Joy Division and the Ramones. When they’re on stage, the brothers are legitimately having a blast. They rock out without a hint of self-consciousness. They are desperate for fame but it’s not as much about the money as it is being able to do what they love for a living. In contrast, U2 are in a constant state of posturing and boy-howdy are they serious. Bono has taken to martyrdom like a duck to water.

Sadly, this isn’t the story of Bono’s rise to super-douchedom. It’s about a man who is profoundly skilled at cocking things up. At times, Neil’s story turns suspiciously farcical for one that’s “based on true events.” Shook Up’s first scheduled gig is usurped by a Pope visitation. Their second gig is a dud as well, taking place at an illegal strip club. To add injury to insult, Neil decides join forces with the club’s gangster owner and digs them a £10,000 hole. Later, Neil books their big London debut gig for the same day as Live Aid. Eventually, the band earns a modicum of success, but they remain in U2’s shadow, the comparison perpetuated by an evil journalist with whom Neil used to work. Many of these tales smack of Irish embellishment. There is no way the real Neil McCormick was that incompetent or unlucky. Right? For his sake, I hope not because the Neil of the film is an annoying, bloody-minded little bastard. Even though I see where he’s coming from, he deserves far more beatings than he actually gets.

Martin McCann plays Bono a bit too modest but I’ll be damned if he isn’t the spitting image of the man. When he offers to help Neil and Ivan get noticed, he does it in such a condescending way that I almost understand why Neil turns him down. ALMOST. Neil wants success on his own terms, but his terms are pretty damned unreasonable, especially when his choices also affect his brother.

Peter Serafinowicz (“Spaced,” “Shaun of the Dead,” the voice of Darth Maul) is hilarious as usual, playing a shady record exec. Also noteworthy is the performance by Pete Postlethwaite, a man known for playing badass Irish motherfuckers. It’s his last role and he goes out on a high note. He’s completely lovable as Neil and Ivan’s campy landlord and he doesn’t kill even one person.

Despite having made “the worst decision of [his brother’s] life”, Neil does have a valid beef with U2. It’s a pretty goofy move to just, one day, change your name to Bono (or, for that matter, The Edge). Their rise to power was hard and fast while better bands struggled for years. They should have remained “The Hype” because it describes them perfectly. I get why they’re popular. They write catchy songs. But Bono isn’t exactly a wordsmith. He writes Rhyming Dictionary Arena rock. Not to mention the fact that their front man wouldn’t put a penny in a Unicef box if there weren’t cameras present to capture it. Granted, that Bono has yet to emerge in the context of the film. Movie Bono is just a super nice guy who wants to use his fame to help a brotha out. But he hasn’t got time for people who don’t appreciate him because he has plenty of people who treat him like royalty. Like I said, I completely understand why Neil is driven literally mad with jealousy.

Ivan, on the other hand, is the warm little center of the story. It’s worth sticking around just to make sure things turn out OK for him and that his brother hasn’t literally ruin his life. Ivan’s likeability is due, in no small part, to the charisma of actor Robert Sheehan. At the ripe old age of 23, Sheehan is already a master of physical comedy. Through the years, the brothers don a series of silly outfits in their attempt to nail down their look and sound. It’s not easy to look dignified when you’re dressed like Adam Ant, but Sheehan’s earnestness sells it. Sheehan brings the laughs even as he’s acting out the worst day of his character’s life. Ben Barnes isn’t terrible as Neil, but in contrast to Sheehan, there are times when his performance appears to have all the nuance of a bit player on “That’s So Raven.” Robert Sheehan is the true Irish national treasure and he must be preserved at all costs.

Originally published on FilmThreat.com (now defunct). 

May 29, 2011
Categories: Filmpinions, Seattle . Tags: , . Author: Baxter . Comments: 1 Comment

SIFF Review: LOVE

2011
Unrated
90 minutes

**

“LOVE” is the latest addition to the Lonely Cosmonaut genre. Listen, I love stories about space as much as the next guy who also likes space stories. But I’m starting to suspect that we’ve already said everything we need to say about the subject. Space is vast, mysterious, beautiful, terrible and lonely as hell. This is both common knowledge and well-worn cinematic territory. Until we learn some new information about space, we don’t really need to keep harping on the old themes. While it is a beautiful and moderately engaging film, it also feels superfluous.

Director William Eubank goes where others have boldly gone before with the tale of Captain Lee Miller, an astronaut stranded in his tin can prison after losing contact with Earth. Miller must battle the insanity of isolation and impending life support failure. To pass the time, he creates elaborate fantasy worlds and loses himself in the diary of a Civil War soldier that just happened to be lying around the space station. Eubank, clearly inspired by “2001” and “Solaris,” lets both the fantasy and reality play out in an epic fashion.

Most of us have never left the planet. Nonetheless, the daily routine of life on a space station is well established in our minds. “LOVE” is filled with such familiar images. Miller paces up and down the cold, tubular hallways. He sits in front of panels covered in lit buttons. He peers longingly through a tiny porthole at the Earth below. He runs on a treadmill. He eats nutritious, unappetizing approximations of food. He watches the last video communication he has from his brother on a loop. Eubank attempts to supplement the hackneyed images with Civil War battle scenes and other fantasy sequences from inside Miller’s mind. Some were more interesting than others and I often found myself eagerly anticipating the return to reality.

Among Miller’s hallucinations are interview segments with average folks espousing their perspective on life and love. This is where the thematic flaws really poke through, transforming the narrative from subtle meditation to philosophical sledgehammer. Among the age-old head-scratchers explored: If a man lives alone in space is he really alive? And can anyone truly live without the hu-mon emotion called love? This sort of fortune cookie wisdom along with a complete lack of humor injects the film with an air of high school poetry class.

The biggest marketing draw for the film is the soundtrack by Angels & Airwaves. Though this is the first I’ve heard of it, it’s my understanding that some have been “eagerly anticipating” this prog rock side project by Blink 182’s Tom DeLonge. It’s Brian Eno for the Hot Topic set and that’s cool enough, I suppose. But I wouldn’t say it’s particularly integral to the story. I can imagine the film without it. In fact, I’ve already sort of forgotten what it sounds like. The soundtrack would have been just as successful were it comprised of the thematically relevant work of Bowie, Elton and Peter Shilling.

A noteworthy feature of “LOVE” is that Eubank and his brothers spent four years building the sets out of household junk in their parents’ driveway. Wayne Coyne accomplished a similar feat for the Flaming Lips film, “Christmas on Mars.” It’s incredible how space-worthy garbage can look. No matter what the result, you have to give props to someone who devotes that much of their life to one film. It would have been nice if he’d allocated a little more of that time to streamlining the plot.

Visually, the end result is quite impressive. This film is absolutely a feast for the eyes. In my book, however, looks aren’t enough to win the whole pageant. If MacBeth were here, he might say that “LOVE” is “a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” Personally, I think that’s a little harsh.

Originally published on FilmThreat.com (now defunct).

May 26, 2011
Categories: Filmpinions, Seattle . Tags: , . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment

The Circle of Shameless Self-Promotion

“Seattle Wrote” profiled me as part of their ongoing series of local blogger interviews. Is it meta to post on my blog a link to a post on another blog in which I promote this blog?

Either way, here it is.

April 15, 2011
Categories: Dear Diary, Seattle . . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment

NFT Radar: the Piecycle

This is the tale of the young pie maker named Max. Max baked the finest dessert pies in all the land. He made fruit pies and chocolate pies, lemon meringue and coconut cream. Once he turned a whole other dessert (S’mores) into a pie. Somehow he could even make a butter crust without any butter at all! Folks speculated about how somebody so young could craft a pie better than the most seasoned of grandmothers. Was it a deal at the crossroads? Sorcery? Whatever magic was at play, it was not black magic, as Max always used his power for good. Every weekend, after nightfall, he would mount his bicycle and deliver his incredible pies to the U District and surrounding areas until the wee hours. Though his pies were as deep as the ocean and worth their weight in gold, he commanded only $3/slice and $20/pie, a paltry sum for pastry perfection. All who tasted his wares were left in satiated bliss. Guess what, kids! This is no fairy tale. Max the Piecycle Man is real. He even has a Facebook page. And, if you’re lucky, he’ll come to your town real soon. Now shut up and go to sleep.

X-posted from Not For Tourists.

April 11, 2011
Categories: NotForTourists, Seattle . . Author: Baxter . Comments: 2 Comments

ARTHUR (2011)

PG-13
110 minutes

**

One of the greatest hazards of remaking a film is suffering comparisons to the original. In the case of “Arthur,” Jason Winer was really asking for it. It’s one thing to remake a terrible movie or even a cult film that not everyone has seen. Only, the original “Arthur” is an Oscar winning film. Indeed, it was nominated in four categories. Regardless, somebody decided the story needed an update. And thus, “Arthur” 2011 happened. It’s not a bad remake. It’s not great either. That’s why it feels more like sanctioned plagiarism than an improvement or a tribute or whatever it is they were going for.

The core plot remains the same. Arthur (Russell Brand) is a perpetually drunk millionaire wastrel who is in danger of losing his inheritance if he doesn’t marry the woman his corporate-minded mother has chosen for him. His betrothed is Susan (Jennifer Garner), a psychotically ambitious executive at his mother’s company. Terrified of poverty, he agrees to the terms until, minutes later, he meets and falls in love with Naomi, an aspiring children’s author/amateur tour guide. He helps her avoid being arrested for the vile crime of giving a tour without a permit. (In the original it was shoplifting.) Naomi is kind, free-spirited, poor and the exact opposite of every other women in his life (save his nanny). As a man who is used to getting everything he wants, Arthur doesn’t know how to handle a conflict like this. And so he doesn’t.

Brand has one distinct advantage coming into this role: a crap load of real life experience. He did not grow up wealthy but has enjoyed lucrative success for quite some time. Brand was a national superstar in the UK long before he brought his luxurious locks and bare, gyrating torso to our shores. Being famous is a bit like being rich even if you don’t have the bank account to back it up. People still give you pretty much whatever you want. And, let’s face it; he’s clocked in enough hours inside a bottle to know what everlasting inebriation looks like. He certainly has enough personality to carry a film. Even if you’re immune to his manic charm, you have to admit he knows how to liven up the place.

But Brand’s performance is not enough to make a successful film. Nor is the presence of Helen Mirren. She’s terrific as Hobson, the gender-swapped role that won Sir John Gielgud an Academy Award the first time around. Because she’s a nanny instead of a butler, there is added warmth to her constant barbs. Brand and Mirren have a tremendous chemistry. If the film were only about their relationship, it might have been quite lovely. Unfortunately, they had to introduce a love interest. And, for some reason, they decided to go with an insipid pile of rocks to play her.

Granted, they had pretty big shoes to fill. I can’t think of any known actress, at this point in the timeline, who could replace Liza Minnelli. But the woman who temps Arthur away from a billion dollar fortune should probably be rich with charisma points. When I looked up this Greta Gerwig person, I was surprised to find I’d seen her before. She’s received critical acclaim for “Greenberg” (which I haven’t seen) and her contribution to the Mumblecore movement including “Baghead” (which I have seen). She clearly hasn’t made an impression on me. She’s not unattractive, but there’s nothing striking about her either. As for her character, Naomi, she might be the quirkiest girl in the office temp pool, but she’s not unique in relation to other New Yorkers. In fact, there is nothing very New York about Naomi at all. If she grew up in Queens, she should have some sort of accent, but her voice is devoid of any local flare. It wouldn’t be so conspicuous, if she weren’t constantly waxing nostalgic about her alleged hometown. I suspect she’s secretly a transplant from Vermont and I demand to see a birth certificate!

If you were born after 1981, you might not have any preconceived expectations for “Arthur”. When I saw the original, I was far too young to understand it. All I took away from it at the time was that Dudley Moore laughed a lot. I mistakenly thought people were annoyed by his giggling, not his alcoholism. In Winer’s version, there’s a lot less giggling but the result is much sillier. Instead of car racing, there are car chases…in a Batmobile…and full Batman regalia (the one with the nipples). It seems like Arthur 2.0 spends a lot more time playing with toys than he does drinking and sleeping with prostitutes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think his irresponsibility isn’t so much due to alcoholism than it is the fact that he has no responsibilities.

In fact, Brand’s Arthur is a pretty lucid drunk. He delivers quick-witted lines without a hint of slurred speech. He orchestrates an epic date for Naomi, including all the tiny details of the improvised story that the two of them gave the cops. Details that even she had forgotten about. This Arthur gets things done. Nonetheless, the script spends a lot of time villainizing his drinking, even going so far as to have Hobson drag him to an AA meeting. Sure, he wakes up with strange bedfellows and a hangover, but he never gets behind the wheel of a car like Moore’s Arthur did. He never screws over his friends or does any of the horrible things you hear about on “Celebrity Rehab.” He’s admonished for frivolous spending during a recession but it’s not like he’s Bernie Madoff. He doesn’t even seem to fully grasp the concept of a recession. If ever there were a character whose drinking needed no apology, it’s Arthur bloody Bach.

Despite all the changes, there are times when screenwriter, Peter Baynham (“Borat”, “Bruno”), is very respectful (almost reverent) of the source material. If the idea behind all these modifications was to set Brand’s Arthur apart from Dudley Moore’s, why bother using the “Arthur” name at all? Why not write a whole new story about a fun-loving millionaire? That is what I find most baffling about any remake. The movie you are making already exists. No matter how much you try to make it your own, people will still compare it to the original. Who wants that kind of pressure? Apparently, a lot of people do, Russell Brand included. An Oscar-winning film, no less! I suppose we can expect a remake of “The Kids are Alright” in 30 years. Only this time, Julianne Moore’s character will have to get treatment for sex addiction.

Originally published on FilmThreat.com (now defunct). 

April 8, 2011
Categories: Filmpinions . Tags: . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment

Film Threat Review: Jez Jerzy (George the Hedgehog)

2011 SXSW FILM FESTIVAL SXFANTASTIC SELECTION!
Unrated
96 minutes

***

There was a time when dirty, experimental cartoons were groundbreaking. “Beavis and Butthead” broke underground music with their video commentary and became a scapegoat to teen pyros across America. “Aeon Flux” made not having a spine sexy, as she sexed her way around her weird, dystopian universe. “The Maxx”…did whatever it is he did. “Spike and Mike’s Sick and Twisted Animation Festival” fliers popped up in every coffee shop and rock club. Certain kids sneaked downstairs after their parents were asleep to enjoy these titillating cartoon wonders, the likes of which they’d never seen. But once “South Park” stopped shocking people on a weekly basis and “Family Guy” became a prime time hit, edgy cartoons just didn’t seem that edgy anymore. That’s why it’s always refreshing when somebody decides to kick it old school. “Jez Jerzy (George the Hedgehog)” could easily be an outtake from the “Liquid Television” days. There’s nothing like a cartoon about a degenerate hedgehog to make you feel all warm and fuzzy.

Based on a Polish comic book of the same name, George is an anthropomorphic hedgehog who drinks constantly, skateboards and has sex with human women. He does these things without much moral objection from the world around him. They seem to resent him more for his luck with the ladies and total disregard for social decorum, than his participation in bestiality. Given that the urban hedgehog’s natural enemy seems to be The Skinhead, there may be some civil metaphors at play here too.

George’s carefree life is turned upside-down when an evil scientist clones him, in an attempt to create the ultimate marketing machine. The scientist plans to make George an Internet sensation, allowing him to control corporate commerce, popular culture and possibly even the Polish government. He hires a couple of skinheads to whack the real George so that he can’t expose the clone. It just so happens that these skinheads already have a beef with George. Fortunately for George, these henchmen are bumbling at best and fail in their mission. They do, however, manage to leave their mark, rendering George out of commission long enough for things to get pretty wacky. When he comes to, George finds himself in a case of mistaken identity. With the help of a busty, baritone prostitute, he must race to clear his name and save Poland. All the while, George farts, drinks, humps, fondles, wisecracks and makes feeble attempts to win back an old flame, now married. It’s a ridiculous plot; one that echoes Louis C.K.’s “Pootie Tang” and recalls Spuds MacKenzie (and Slurms MacKenzie!). For the record, I mean that as a compliment.

There are probably Poland-specific jokes that will be lost on an American audience (I couldn’t identify them, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there). What is evident, however, is how much American culture has affected Poland. It almost feels like an alternate American universe. Don’t worry, though. This film won’t make you think too hard. The social commentary mostly stays out of the way of the raunchy jokes and cartoon boobs. Dirty cartoons had their renaissance, but it’s nice to see a small revival in the form of “Jez Jerzy.” It’s crudely animated in the best possible way, depraved, graphic, funny and just the thing for late-night viewing.

Originally published on FilmThreat.com (now defunct).

March 29, 2011
Categories: Filmpinions . Tags: , . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment

Film Threat Review: 96 Minutes

2011 SXSW FILM FESTIVAL NARRATIVE COMPETITION SELECTION!
Unrated
93 minutes

**

At SXSW, Aimee Lagos introduced “96 Minutes” by saying that it was about the people who “don’t normally have their stories told.” In actuality, these people she refers to have their stories told frequently, but it’s usually from a morally superior and monochromatic Caucasian point of view. Audiences and critics will inevitably (and rightfully) compare this film to Paul Haggis’ “Crash.” Depending on whom you ask, this is either a compliment or an insult. As far as I’m concerned, “Crash” is the most racist, condescending movie ever to win an Academy Award. Knowing that, you can probably surmise my position on “96 Minutes.”

Worlds collide when co-eds, Carley and Lena, are carjacked by two troubled boys named Kevin and Dre who hail from the wrong side of the tracks (LITERALLY). The story is told in the ever-popular non-linear style, cutting between the present drama and the events in their respective lives that brought them to this point. Kevin is a poor white boy who fancies himself a gangsta-in-training. Dre is Kevin’s African American cousin who just wants to trade in his A-to-the-mothafuckin-K for a cap and gown. Dre only had one more day till retirement…I mean, GRADUATION…when Kevin got him involved in these shenanigans. The boys are in a bit of a pickle because Lena is bleeding from a bullet hole in her face, a semi-accidental love letter that Kevin sent her when she wouldn’t cooperate. Dre really wants to do the right thing, but for some reason, he isn’t sure what that is.

Some have argued that these characters aren’t stereotypes because people like them actually exist. I’m not denying that gangs and gang violence are real issues. People get carjacked. Young middle-class women feel neglected by their business-obsessed fathers. Young hooligans listen to violent music, play first-person shooter games and fantasize about popping a cap in the ass of the man who beats their mom. It’s just that when you bring all of these people together, it starts to feel like a very special episode of “Beverly Hills 90210.” I’m still not sure what Lagos is getting at with this film. Is it that kids who grow up in the ghetto will inevitably join a gang? Is it that all a troubled kid needs is to listen to the middle-class, educated, white woman when she tells him, “You don’t have to do this”? Or maybe Lagos just wants to know why we can’t all just get along, man. At times, it definitely feels as if she is comparing the problems of these college students with the troubles of the ghetto, as though they could really learn something from each other and maybe aren’t that different. As though an inattentive father or unfaithful boyfriend is on par with being abused by your mother’s boyfriend or having no dad at all.

It’s not just the stereotypes that are the problem. The ham-fisted dialog is straight from an after school special. The big, menacing ganstas who coerce Kevin into jacking a car as an initiation warn him, “This ain’t playtime. This shit here’s fo real.” At one point, Dre argues, “I got a gun in my hand cos I don’t see any other way out.” It’s a real seat-squirmer but not because shit gets too real. It’s because of lines like that and the borderline cartoon racism on screen. When Dre is walking home from school, two cops jump him. One is black and one is white. They both beat him down, claiming that he looked suspicious, but the black cop is much more violent with Dre. You might say that the black police officer was showing off for the white one. I guess Lagos has heard that N.W.A. song too. Meanwhile, an old woman watches from her window and when Dre looks to her for help, she closes the curtain. Later, some other cops question a kindly BBQ restaurant owner named Duane (David Oyelowo), and they appear to accuse him of the crime he is reporting to them. He rolls his eyes and I can’t help but think there was a little bit of actor commentary in his performance.

The acting is the only thing I can’t complain about. Everyone does their best with what they’re given. The mean old thugs try to instill more than just black-hat villainy into their characters. Evan Ross won an award at SXSW for his role as Dre. I wish it had been for something a bit more worthy of his talents. For my money, David Oyelowo is the best of the bunch, owning every scene he’s in and somehow selling a particularly sappy phone call to his nephew.

Lagos does her best to distract from her shoddy storytelling with a couple of popular indie filmmaking tricks. She uses color-coding, contrasting the washed out, gritty ghetto with the colorful, sunny college campus and the white bread town in which it sits. The scenes in the car are a dim yellow, lit only by streetlamps and stoplights, keeping the audience as well as the characters in the dark. The non-linear narrative does hold your attention, at least until the time line catches up. You can’t deny the tension of a girl bleeding out in the backseat of a moving car. But Lagos is a conjurer of cheap tricks. Whenever the story jumps to the events pre-jacking, we’re painfully reminded what kind of movie this is. It’s the unfortunate outcome of misplaced white guilt. When the ride is finally over, that’s when the preaching kicks into high gear. I too suffer from white guilt. It’s over the fact that films like this get made. I’m SO sorry.

Originally published on FilmThreat.com (now defunct). 

March 25, 2011
Categories: Filmpinions . Tags: , . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment

Film Threat Review: The Other F Word

2011 SXSW FILM FESTIVAL SPOTLIGHT PREMIERES SELECTION!
Unrated
98 minutes

****

Full disclosure: I AM the target audience for “The Other F Word.” I grew up on punk music and I have a one-year-old daughter at home. That said I’m a tough sell on sentimental documentaries. The movies that have brought tears to my eyes are few and far between. This one had me using my hoodie for a tissue every time one of those tatted-up daddies talked about their crappy childhoods or how much they love their kids. Director Andrea Blaugrund Nevins has made a raw, honest, hilarious and extremely heartrending film. Besides, how can you be expected to keep a dry face when these punk rock icons don’t?

Almost everyone who turns to punk does so because they need it. It’s not just music to them. It’s a home to them when their real homes are unwelcoming or their peers have ostracized them. In the punk scene, kids could find the unconditional love they couldn’t get elsewhere. But the scene is a bit like Neverland. Eventually, the punks grow up. They get adult jobs, mortgages and IRAs. They file away their punk rock pasts in their iPods’ shuffle. The musicians are the Peter Pans of the punk scene, but they couldn’t stay young either. They also can’t leave Neverland. Not if they wanted to keep playing music. When they found themselves with kids and mortgages, punk was no longer just an attitude to them. It had become a job. Brett Gurewitz, (Bad Religion, Epitaph Records) quips, “Punk rock was never meant to grow up. But it did. So too bad.”

There are some ideals of the punk world you never shake: Freethinking, questioning authority, pressing boundaries. Eventually, if you expect to have a happy family, you have to make some compromises. The film’s through line follows Jim Lindberg, front man for the legendary band, Pennywise. He’s preparing to go back on the road, where he spends over 200 days a year. He packs hair dye and studded belts. He’s trying to keep the dream alive but it’s clear that his heart just isn’t in it anymore. Unfortunately, the other, childfree band members want to keep touring forever, and partying like it’s 1989. The fans are still rabid for the music. Besides, his kids need food, clothing and electricity and those things cost money. He’s become a traveling salesman, schlepping anarchy door-to-door.

The film features numerous punk notables including Ron “Chavo” Reyes (Black Flag), Joe Escalante (The Vandals) and Mark Mothersbaugh (DEVO). All of them are dads. Some of them seem a little surprised by it. None of them expected to be around this long. They didn’t have death wishes or anything. It’s just that Fat Mike (NOFX) couldn’t have imagined that he’d become an indentured servant to a little girl, carrying her from room to room and making her breakfast. Mark Hoppus (Blink 182) never would have guessed that he’d be buying the edited versions of his albums to play in the car for his kids. Lars Fredrickson (Rancid) didn’t think about what the other moms at the park would think when he got that tattoo on his forehead. A young Jim Lindberg probably wouldn’t have believed you if you told him he’d one day be haggling with his daughters about how many of their Barbies he would bring on the road with him. These guys aren’t unhappy with the unexpected turns their lives have taken. On the contrary, they seem blissfully happy whenever they spend time with their offspring (in a hilarious twist, they are mostly daughters). They just don’t want to fuck it up.

Almost everyone interviewed has an asshole dad story. They tell harrowing tales of men breaking their sons’ hearts. In some ways, it was generational. Being a good father meant putting food on the table and that was basically all that was required of them. Many couldn’t even handle that and abandoned their families. Others stayed but used a belt or a fist on those that loved them most, an attempt to exorcise their resentment. “When I had my daughter,” Fat Mike confesses, “that’s when I really started to get angry at my dad.”

Art Alexakis of Everclear tells perhaps the saddest tale of paternal failure. Anyone who’s heard “Father of Mine,” knows that Alexakis has daddy issues. He discusses the horrifying details in between clips of a heartfelt acoustic performance of his song. Alexakis also wins the award for most priceless face by a scared-shitless new father.

“The Other F Word” isn’t all punk rock therapy. There are also many comical moments in a day in the life of a punk rock parent. One of more amusing elements is the way their children regard them. In the punk world, their fans revere and emulate them. But when they’re at home, they’re just lame old dads. Still, better to be a lame dad than a negligent one.

Fat Mike admits that he and his wife assumed that their child would just join their lives, already in progress. It’s easy to forget that they will be their own people and come with a completely unique set of opinions and desires. This generation of dads is desperate to improve upon the last. And it’s not just punk dads but any dad who just wants his children to be happy. You have to give up a lot to be a good parent. You don’t have to lose yourself entirely, but you have to make a lot of compromises that you never expected or possibly even vowed against. Jim summarizes the theme of “The Other F Word” nicely. “[Punk rock] is about doing everything your parents didn’t want you to do… How did we go from saying ‘Fuck your parents’ to being parents ourselves?”

Some of the sacrifices they make are lamentable, like having to hang out with the awful parents of their kid’s friends. Some are improvements, like cutting back on their partying and curbing their potty mouths. Jim suggests that the most important thing a punk can do might not be writing an anthem. “Maybe the way we change the world,” he says, “is by being better parents.”

Originally published on FilmThreat.com (now defunct). 

March 25, 2011
Categories: Filmpinions . Tags: , . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment

Film Threat Review: American Animal

2011 SXSW FILM FESTIVAL NARRATIVE COMPETITION SELECTION!
Unrated
95 minutes

****

If you’ve read any plays by Tom Stoppard or Samuel Becket, than “American Animal” will be familiar territory. Apart from quick-paced banter between characters, nothing much happens. But when the thing is over, you’re left with much to muse. This sort of thing can be challenging. Especially since writer/director/star Matt D’Elia has created a personality who is obtrusive to say the least. Furthermore, when someone has that much creative control over a film, it’s usually a big, flashing warning sign that says “Vanity Project.” As it happens, it’s not vanity if they’re actually talented.

“American Animal” is practically a paradox. D’Elia plays Jimmy, an eccentric unemployed man with an unexplained terminal illness who spends his days lounging around his shared flat in unconventional underpants espousing philosophical monologues and doing impressions. A character like this should be aggravating, not compelling. It helps that Jimmy makes some pretty good points in his monologues and his impressions aren’t too shabby. Jimmy’s flatmate is James (Brendan Fletcher), an uptight bookish man (in contrast) who also enjoys a life of leisure. Remember those exhilarating nights in college when you blew off your homework and instead used what you learned in class to have inebriated, heated debates with your friends about the state of humanity? That’s every day for these trust-fund-squandering lay-a-bouts. Recently, however, James has begun to feel guilty about his extravagant lifestyle and decides that he needs to move forward with that whole “adulthood” thing by taking a job. Conversely, Jimmy has just decided that he hasn’t been extravagant enough. He proceeds to guilt-trip James and their two lady friends (a cheery blonde and a jaded brunette, both named Angela) into indulging him in his hedonistic antics. Jimmy is upset that James has decided to break up the party and does everything in his power to convince James to reconsider. James wants to affect the world around him and give his life a purpose. Jimmy has concluded that because he doesn’t have any responsibilities, he has mastered the system.

The eloquent, thought-provoking dialog flows at a theatrical pace, but it doesn’t feel unnatural. These are college-educated people who aren’t shy about name-dropping Charles Darwin. A typical exchange has everyone saying “what?” with near-maddening frequency, forcing each other to repeat themselves. It’s embellished, but it’s also an understandable reaction to the tension built up in close quarters. Though Jimmy makes grand, self-assured statements and spouts his radical, provocative ideas, he has several substantiated arguments in his repertoire. He makes childish demands and is completely inconsiderate to his friends. He jumps from character to character, often with a costume change. He makes up his own words and insists that it can be Christmas if he wants it to be. Jimmy blames his madness on whatever ailment requires him to take a meal’s worth of prescription drugs every morning. But what has really driven him mad is his privileged life. When he’s actually faced with a problem, he handles it by going balls out (sometimes literally). He’s the closest thing we have to a successful modernization of Hamlet. James is Jimmy’s Rosencrantz/Guildenstern. Though he has good intentions and thinks he’s doing the right thing, James is also, in some ways, writing Jimmy’s death warrant. James isn’t as exuberant as Jimmy, but actor Fletcher aids in cultivating a compelling character that may not be as reasonable as he thinks he is. The big adult job that James is starting in the morning is a paid internship at Harper Collins. His “contribution to society” is a job that he probably got through nepotism.

Theatrics aside, “American Animal” is a colorful, audiovisual experience. D’Elia utilizes jump cut montages and musical cues reminiscent of a Wes Anderson film to acquaint the audience with life in the Urban Outfitters catalog in which these two men have holed up for so long. D’Elia lets the irreverent décor of the house serve as shorthand for who these men are. Thankfully, no one in the film ever says the titular line. It was only after the credits rolled that I realized the title was a punch line.

Originally published on FilmThreat.com. 

March 24, 2011
Categories: Filmpinions . Tags: , . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment

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