Michael Jackson: 1958 - 2009
By: Eric Henderson and Sal Cinquemani On: 06/26/2009 12:54:58 In: Artists Comments: 2

Upon hearing of Michael Jackson's death yesterday, one of the first things that popped into my head was: "Have you seen my childhood?" I say that as naïvely and as free from cynicism as I can. At its best, pop music both clarifies and enriches receptive souls' personal experience. And the touchtone moments in pop culture exist as a simple purification of every individual's life experience. Speaking personally, the death of Michael Jackson will forever denote the moment I left my 20s behind; it comes literally days before I turn 30. It's a perfect parallel, in a sense. The arbitrary acknowledgement of my wonder years' passing will be forever intertwined with the death of the man who was never allowed a proper childhood, and who subsequently raged with all his creative might against the onset of adulthood. Jackson's music still serves as a crucible for our various compromises and self-imposed psychological barriers. It sounds carefree, but it's impossible to listen to without assessing its creator's hidden torment. Even the smoothest, catchiest, most disco-tastic singles in MJ's back catalog are a little obsessed. (Don't stop 'til you get enough? Got me working day and night?) Which is my own tortured way of saying it sounded great then, and it sounds great now. In the mid-'80s, I always thought of Michael Jackson and Prince as a perfect yin and yang of pop and R&B, the former representing good and the latter evil—or close to it. In retrospect, both were never more compelling (and downright terrifying) than when they confounded that syllogism. (Prince's "God" is as chillingly direct as Jackson's "In the Closet" is hauntingly abstruse.) Time's cruel joke: Now that I'm old enough to appreciate Jackson's artistic persona on its deeper levels, I only want back the simplicity of his showmanship. I want back the days when it wasn't the Eagles sitting atop the all-time list of best-selling albums. I want the Michael Jackson who somehow nailed flawless, effortless quadruple turns easing down the road in The Wiz while wearing size 37 scarecrow slippers. I want him back. Eric Henderson
Michael Jackson's Wikipedia page was updated within moments of the announcement of the glittery gloved one's passing. Twitter crashed harder than it did during the peak of last week's protests in Iran. Two of the major broadcast television networks suspended their primetime schedule to air specials about Jackson, while radio stations across the country cued up songs from his extensive catalogue of hits. One woman called in to New York's Power 105 in tears, repeating, "I loved Michael Jackson! I loved that man!" over and over, before threatening to throw herself in front of a car. You can hear his influence in the music of today's younger pop, R&B, and hip-hop stars, and his own songs, whether it's "Human Nature" or "Remember the Time," rarely sound conspicuous when sandwiched between the top radio hits of 2009. If the self-proclaimed and globally ordained King of Pop's career was in decline—or even over—at the time of his death, you'd never know it. To celebrate the very reason he mattered, still matters, and always will, we've compiled a list of our 10 favorite Michael Jackson singles and videos (in chronological order). Enjoy. Sal Cinquemani
When Marvin Gaye recorded a version of Leon Ware's plaintive long-distance love song, "I Wanna Be Where You Are," little could he have known it would just a few years later sound like comforting "I'll always love you" sentiments from beyond the grave. The gap was far longer in Jackson's case (he recorded it in 1972, one of his earliest singles without the Jackson 5), but again the song now aches with the foreknowledge of something lost:
After a glorious fake-out prelude of tentative, mumbling first-date banter, Jackson and producer Quincy Jones absolutely blow the roof off. Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough" is declaration as explosive imperative, pop music's ultimate side one, track one:
Prevailing wisdom dictates that "Rock with You" and "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough" should be cited as Jacko's best disco-era tracks, but "Off the Wall" comes pretty damn close. And this one lyric seems to capture the often bizarre icon's too-short life: "Life ain't so bad at all if you live it off the wall."
The Jacksons's "Can You Feel It" wasn't the first time Michael Jackson blew his socio-musical aspirations out into Cinerama dimensions, but this stately slice of disco represents maybe his first successful stab at synthesizing social consciousness and million-dollar production values. It's the secular forerunner of "Man in the Mirror":
To quote Ed Gonzalez from our 100 Greatest Music Videos list: How fucking cool was Michael Jackson that he could light up a sidewalk with the tap of his foot in "Billie Jean"?
To quote again from that list, never before had a music video, a largely artless marketing tool up until that point, employed plot, costume, and cinema style as expansively as "Thriller":
As the leadoff single from the album that had the dirty job of following up Thriller, "I Just Can't Stop Loving You" seemed an unlikely candidate. It wasn't danceable. It wasn't immediately hooky. For Christ's sake, it was a duet! But aided immeasurably by the endlessly descending chords of a particularly melodramatic chorus, it's Jackson's finest moment as a adult heterosexual male recording artist:
A slow jam of the highest order, "Remember the Time" proved that even when the King of Pop's crown was starting to get a little rusty, his R&B was as smooth as ever:
The blockbuster-budget video, the Jam & Lewis crashes and clatters, the long-awaited collaboration with the only other Jackson who matters. All superfluous. "Scream" boils down to that solitary curse: "Stop fucking with me." Only Michael Jackson could, as late in the "Parental Advisory" game as 1995, make the word sound like a direct slap:
If there's one good thing to come from the sudden passing of the first black artist to get played on MTV, it's that the network is actually playing music videos again, at least temporarily. Specifically, they're playing Jackson's videos—all of them. Or almost all of them. Presumably, they haven't played either version of the controversial 1996 single "They Don't Care About Us." The first was directed by Spike Lee and was shot in a favela in Rio de Janeiro; the second was a less subtle statement about poverty, racism, and the prison system, juxtaposing images of the civil rights movement with Jackson shackled in a prison cell and performing among inmates in a prison cafeteria:

Upon hearing of Michael Jackson's death yesterday, one of the first things that popped into my head was: "Have you seen my childhood?" I say that as naïvely and as free from cynicism as I can. At its best, pop music both clarifies and enriches receptive souls' personal experience. And the touchtone moments in pop culture exist as a simple purification of every individual's life experience. Speaking personally, the death of Michael Jackson will forever denote the moment I left my 20s behind; it comes literally days before I turn 30. It's a perfect parallel, in a sense. The arbitrary acknowledgement of my wonder years' passing will be forever intertwined with the death of the man who was never allowed a proper childhood, and who subsequently raged with all his creative might against the onset of adulthood. Jackson's music still serves as a crucible for our various compromises and self-imposed psychological barriers. It sounds carefree, but it's impossible to listen to without assessing its creator's hidden torment. Even the smoothest, catchiest, most disco-tastic singles in MJ's back catalog are a little obsessed. (Don't stop 'til you get enough? Got me working day and night?) Which is my own tortured way of saying it sounded great then, and it sounds great now. In the mid-'80s, I always thought of Michael Jackson and Prince as a perfect yin and yang of pop and R&B, the former representing good and the latter evil—or close to it. In retrospect, both were never more compelling (and downright terrifying) than when they confounded that syllogism. (Prince's "God" is as chillingly direct as Jackson's "In the Closet" is hauntingly abstruse.) Time's cruel joke: Now that I'm old enough to appreciate Jackson's artistic persona on its deeper levels, I only want back the simplicity of his showmanship. I want back the days when it wasn't the Eagles sitting atop the all-time list of best-selling albums. I want the Michael Jackson who somehow nailed flawless, effortless quadruple turns easing down the road in The Wiz while wearing size 37 scarecrow slippers. I want him back. Eric Henderson
Michael Jackson's Wikipedia page was updated within moments of the announcement of the glittery gloved one's passing. Twitter crashed harder than it did during the peak of last week's protests in Iran. Two of the major broadcast television networks suspended their primetime schedule to air specials about Jackson, while radio stations across the country cued up songs from his extensive catalogue of hits. One woman called in to New York's Power 105 in tears, repeating, "I loved Michael Jackson! I loved that man!" over and over, before threatening to throw herself in front of a car. You can hear his influence in the music of today's younger pop, R&B, and hip-hop stars, and his own songs, whether it's "Human Nature" or "Remember the Time," rarely sound conspicuous when sandwiched between the top radio hits of 2009. If the self-proclaimed and globally ordained King of Pop's career was in decline—or even over—at the time of his death, you'd never know it. To celebrate the very reason he mattered, still matters, and always will, we've compiled a list of our 10 favorite Michael Jackson singles and videos (in chronological order). Enjoy. Sal Cinquemani
When Marvin Gaye recorded a version of Leon Ware's plaintive long-distance love song, "I Wanna Be Where You Are," little could he have known it would just a few years later sound like comforting "I'll always love you" sentiments from beyond the grave. The gap was far longer in Jackson's case (he recorded it in 1972, one of his earliest singles without the Jackson 5), but again the song now aches with the foreknowledge of something lost:
After a glorious fake-out prelude of tentative, mumbling first-date banter, Jackson and producer Quincy Jones absolutely blow the roof off. Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough" is declaration as explosive imperative, pop music's ultimate side one, track one:
Prevailing wisdom dictates that "Rock with You" and "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough" should be cited as Jacko's best disco-era tracks, but "Off the Wall" comes pretty damn close. And this one lyric seems to capture the often bizarre icon's too-short life: "Life ain't so bad at all if you live it off the wall."
The Jacksons's "Can You Feel It" wasn't the first time Michael Jackson blew his socio-musical aspirations out into Cinerama dimensions, but this stately slice of disco represents maybe his first successful stab at synthesizing social consciousness and million-dollar production values. It's the secular forerunner of "Man in the Mirror":
To quote Ed Gonzalez from our 100 Greatest Music Videos list: How fucking cool was Michael Jackson that he could light up a sidewalk with the tap of his foot in "Billie Jean"?
To quote again from that list, never before had a music video, a largely artless marketing tool up until that point, employed plot, costume, and cinema style as expansively as "Thriller":
As the leadoff single from the album that had the dirty job of following up Thriller, "I Just Can't Stop Loving You" seemed an unlikely candidate. It wasn't danceable. It wasn't immediately hooky. For Christ's sake, it was a duet! But aided immeasurably by the endlessly descending chords of a particularly melodramatic chorus, it's Jackson's finest moment as a adult heterosexual male recording artist:
A slow jam of the highest order, "Remember the Time" proved that even when the King of Pop's crown was starting to get a little rusty, his R&B was as smooth as ever:
The blockbuster-budget video, the Jam & Lewis crashes and clatters, the long-awaited collaboration with the only other Jackson who matters. All superfluous. "Scream" boils down to that solitary curse: "Stop fucking with me." Only Michael Jackson could, as late in the "Parental Advisory" game as 1995, make the word sound like a direct slap:
If there's one good thing to come from the sudden passing of the first black artist to get played on MTV, it's that the network is actually playing music videos again, at least temporarily. Specifically, they're playing Jackson's videos—all of them. Or almost all of them. Presumably, they haven't played either version of the controversial 1996 single "They Don't Care About Us." The first was directed by Spike Lee and was shot in a favela in Rio de Janeiro; the second was a less subtle statement about poverty, racism, and the prison system, juxtaposing images of the civil rights movement with Jackson shackled in a prison cell and performing among inmates in a prison cafeteria:
Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009: The Yes Men Fix the World
By: Bill Weber On: 06/24/2009 13:38:23 In: Festivals Comments: 0

Returning for a second feature-length tilt at gleefully executing anti-corporate hoaxes, Andy Bichlbaum and Mike Bonanno follow up the inflatable penis suit and feces-generated fast food of The Yes Men with a little more showbiz (staged comic interludes in their debris-filled "underground headquarters") to prank unsuspecting business conferees with fraudulent rollouts of a bulbous rubber survival cocoon (ostensibly from Halliburton) and a new energy source: candles made from the flesh of a gallant, industrially-poisoned Exxon janitor. Proving repeatedly that a passable wardrobe and camera-ready clichés can get them into any chair normally reserved for experts and bureaucrats, the Yes Men most satisfyingly bring temporary but unaccustomed chaos through a BBC News interview where Bichlbaum's offer of Dow Chemical billions to treat victims of the 1984 Bhopal chemical disaster sends the company's stock plunging; the post-catastrophic "SurvivaBall" garb draws straight-faced questions about marketability and long-term wear; and a New York Times print parody exploits Obama-victory ecstasy by trumpeting headlines of instant Iraq withdrawal and sweeping progressive reforms. (This climactic project, though accurately conceived and read as a "dream paper," may have dated fastest of all.)
Even more so than in the previous film, The Yes Men Fix the World indulges in faux-naïve disappointment that, after garnering priceless double-takes of white-collar audiences confronted with the "Golden Skeleton" of monetary human-life calculus or the hypothesis that global warming can be as positively transformative as the Black Plague was in clearing the decks for the Renaissance, the duo hasn't shamed The Man into changing his deregulated, market-dictated ways. Given that Bichlbaum and Bonanno aren't above funny cheap shots like green-screening Tom of Finland art behind a solemn Milton Friedman-school economist, their exposure of ossified free-market mindsets seems more in line with their skills than a call to activism against a global capitalist oligarchy. Careful to elicit blessings upon their deceptions from the downtrodden, be they health activists in Bhopal or the post-Katrina poor being squeezed out in money-mad New Orleans reconstruction plans, the Yes Men ultimately admit to "failure" to fix the world except in the pages of their utopian Times, but their true success comes in discovering a Gulf Coast-rehab expo where the only shelters being marketed are yurts from Kyrgyzstan, or in getting a climate-change skeptic to offer, "Cold-related deaths will decrease significantly."
[The Yes Men Fix the World premieres June 24 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]

Returning for a second feature-length tilt at gleefully executing anti-corporate hoaxes, Andy Bichlbaum and Mike Bonanno follow up the inflatable penis suit and feces-generated fast food of The Yes Men with a little more showbiz (staged comic interludes in their debris-filled "underground headquarters") to prank unsuspecting business conferees with fraudulent rollouts of a bulbous rubber survival cocoon (ostensibly from Halliburton) and a new energy source: candles made from the flesh of a gallant, industrially-poisoned Exxon janitor. Proving repeatedly that a passable wardrobe and camera-ready clichés can get them into any chair normally reserved for experts and bureaucrats, the Yes Men most satisfyingly bring temporary but unaccustomed chaos through a BBC News interview where Bichlbaum's offer of Dow Chemical billions to treat victims of the 1984 Bhopal chemical disaster sends the company's stock plunging; the post-catastrophic "SurvivaBall" garb draws straight-faced questions about marketability and long-term wear; and a New York Times print parody exploits Obama-victory ecstasy by trumpeting headlines of instant Iraq withdrawal and sweeping progressive reforms. (This climactic project, though accurately conceived and read as a "dream paper," may have dated fastest of all.)
Even more so than in the previous film, The Yes Men Fix the World indulges in faux-naïve disappointment that, after garnering priceless double-takes of white-collar audiences confronted with the "Golden Skeleton" of monetary human-life calculus or the hypothesis that global warming can be as positively transformative as the Black Plague was in clearing the decks for the Renaissance, the duo hasn't shamed The Man into changing his deregulated, market-dictated ways. Given that Bichlbaum and Bonanno aren't above funny cheap shots like green-screening Tom of Finland art behind a solemn Milton Friedman-school economist, their exposure of ossified free-market mindsets seems more in line with their skills than a call to activism against a global capitalist oligarchy. Careful to elicit blessings upon their deceptions from the downtrodden, be they health activists in Bhopal or the post-Katrina poor being squeezed out in money-mad New Orleans reconstruction plans, the Yes Men ultimately admit to "failure" to fix the world except in the pages of their utopian Times, but their true success comes in discovering a Gulf Coast-rehab expo where the only shelters being marketed are yurts from Kyrgyzstan, or in getting a climate-change skeptic to offer, "Cold-related deaths will decrease significantly."
[The Yes Men Fix the World premieres June 24 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]
Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009: Good Fortune
By: Bill Weber On: 06/23/2009 13:35:37 In: Festivals Comments: 0

"You guys will go from last to first," Dominion Farms CEO Calvin Burgess condescendingly tells a crowd of Kenyans at an outdoor PR carnival in Good Fortune as he pumps up enthusiasm for his American company's project to turn a swath of the Yala Swamp into a $30 million rice farm. But Dominion's plan to flood 1100 acres of arable land and construct an irrigation dam takes little account of the area's farmers who are losing their homes and livelihood; they're a collateral nuisance. "My life is based on this soil...We don't want to become [Burgess's] laborers," says farmer and schoolteacher Jackson Omondi, one of three citizen protagonists in Landon Van Soest's documentary who object to the impact that purported anti-poverty programs, devised by foreign corporations or NGOs with the carefully negotiated participation of Kenya's government, will have on their lives. Are they short-sighted, unwilling to see that the status quo blocks "big-picture" progress in the modernization of Africa's continental economy? Perhaps, as a Dominion director sunnily puts it, the Yala farmers simply need to see that the submerging of their land provides a golden opportunity for "changing their careers into fishing and other pursuits."
Lacking any narrator or audible off-camera interrogators, van Soest's film is occasionally wanting in terms of contextual data and confirmation of the Kenyans' assertions (e.g. the link between Dominion's sprayed chemicals and the local incidence of miscarriages). But the crises and dilemmas in the three-part chronicle are informed by the familiar past failings of Western corporate culture and the Kenya regime's prioritization of profit—along with the nation's bloody post-election mayhem in 2007, seen here in the final reels. In the capital of Nairobi, where the Kibera slum neighborhood that's home to one million is being "upgraded" by a joint UN-government effort, a hairdresser threatened with eviction points to local high-rises that were similarly supposed to elevate quality of life for the poor, but were ultimately occupied by the upper class or abandoned amid embezzlement revelations. And in perhaps the most desperate segments, fishing communities on the shores of Lake Victoria are confronted not only by stocks critically depleted by a World Bank-funded export industry and environmental degradation, but the spread of AIDS as increasingly alienated men patronize prostitutes and expose their wives to HIV.
Not merely questioning if a corporate, Western model of aid to Africa can penetrate to the grassroots, Good Fortune sees those most egregiously treated as pawns by outsiders (of varying motives) and domestic powers-that-be as fully aware of their underdog status, and often bleakly resigned to the limits of resistance. "It's better to leave without a fight," sighs the Kibera salon owner, even as the film unexpectedly shows Western ingenuity receiving a near-karmic comeuppance in the Yala Swamp.
[Good Fortune premieres June 24 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]

"You guys will go from last to first," Dominion Farms CEO Calvin Burgess condescendingly tells a crowd of Kenyans at an outdoor PR carnival in Good Fortune as he pumps up enthusiasm for his American company's project to turn a swath of the Yala Swamp into a $30 million rice farm. But Dominion's plan to flood 1100 acres of arable land and construct an irrigation dam takes little account of the area's farmers who are losing their homes and livelihood; they're a collateral nuisance. "My life is based on this soil...We don't want to become [Burgess's] laborers," says farmer and schoolteacher Jackson Omondi, one of three citizen protagonists in Landon Van Soest's documentary who object to the impact that purported anti-poverty programs, devised by foreign corporations or NGOs with the carefully negotiated participation of Kenya's government, will have on their lives. Are they short-sighted, unwilling to see that the status quo blocks "big-picture" progress in the modernization of Africa's continental economy? Perhaps, as a Dominion director sunnily puts it, the Yala farmers simply need to see that the submerging of their land provides a golden opportunity for "changing their careers into fishing and other pursuits."
Lacking any narrator or audible off-camera interrogators, van Soest's film is occasionally wanting in terms of contextual data and confirmation of the Kenyans' assertions (e.g. the link between Dominion's sprayed chemicals and the local incidence of miscarriages). But the crises and dilemmas in the three-part chronicle are informed by the familiar past failings of Western corporate culture and the Kenya regime's prioritization of profit—along with the nation's bloody post-election mayhem in 2007, seen here in the final reels. In the capital of Nairobi, where the Kibera slum neighborhood that's home to one million is being "upgraded" by a joint UN-government effort, a hairdresser threatened with eviction points to local high-rises that were similarly supposed to elevate quality of life for the poor, but were ultimately occupied by the upper class or abandoned amid embezzlement revelations. And in perhaps the most desperate segments, fishing communities on the shores of Lake Victoria are confronted not only by stocks critically depleted by a World Bank-funded export industry and environmental degradation, but the spread of AIDS as increasingly alienated men patronize prostitutes and expose their wives to HIV.
Not merely questioning if a corporate, Western model of aid to Africa can penetrate to the grassroots, Good Fortune sees those most egregiously treated as pawns by outsiders (of varying motives) and domestic powers-that-be as fully aware of their underdog status, and often bleakly resigned to the limits of resistance. "It's better to leave without a fight," sighs the Kibera salon owner, even as the film unexpectedly shows Western ingenuity receiving a near-karmic comeuppance in the Yala Swamp.
[Good Fortune premieres June 24 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]
Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009: Tapologo
By: Joseph Jon Lanthier On: 06/22/2009 13:02:28 In: Festivals Comments: 0

A stone's throw from the Impala Platinum mine in South Africa, Freedom Park is a shanty town hell inhabited by sub-Saharan migrant workers that lacks even the most rudimentary community developments (running water, agriculture), and possesses a makeshift economy existing primarily to serve the whims of sexual predators. As a result, roughly 50% of the female citizenry, all of whom are de facto prostitutes, has contracted HIV. The documentary Tapologo circuitously follows a collection of nurses—most of whom are rehabilitated sex workers with AIDS themselves—who collectively founded the Tapologo Hospice in Freedom Park under the wing of a small group of doctors-cum-missionaries from the United Kingdom.
The objective of the hospice seems, at first glance, rather defeatist: The women who man the small pharmacies and make house calls throughout the disease-riddled town are fully aware of the infected population's mortality rate, and in spite of attempts at prevention therapy (condom distribution, AIDS education sessions) the epidemic's grip on the community has not slackened. The dignity of their efforts, however, is aptly summed up by a visiting Irish priest: After an individual has contracted the virus, he observes, Christianly care is the only useful ecclesiastical reaction. The Tapologo nurses not only prolong and improve the quality of their patients' lives but of their own as well, and the smattering of oral histories in the film emphasize the medicinal properties of fraternal strength even in the face of moribund despair.
Structurally, the film would have benefited from pruning; much information is repeated out of necessity as we revisit the same characters multiple times and gradually piece together their autobiographies. And the attempt in the center of the documentary at representing a full day at the hospice with title cards heralding the start of each hour features far too many distractions—for example, cutaways to lengthy monologues from figures outside the facility—to properly capture the frenzied cadence of the profession. But the directors' judicious patience with their subjects allows them to capture some remarkable storytelling, and even more impressive are the silent montages cycling through five-second video portraits of the hospice's non-English speaking staff. Their worldly, fatigued stares are the most eloquent thing about Tapologo: They communicate the experience of having one foot in the grave but marching forward, regardless.
[Tapologo premieres June 23 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]

A stone's throw from the Impala Platinum mine in South Africa, Freedom Park is a shanty town hell inhabited by sub-Saharan migrant workers that lacks even the most rudimentary community developments (running water, agriculture), and possesses a makeshift economy existing primarily to serve the whims of sexual predators. As a result, roughly 50% of the female citizenry, all of whom are de facto prostitutes, has contracted HIV. The documentary Tapologo circuitously follows a collection of nurses—most of whom are rehabilitated sex workers with AIDS themselves—who collectively founded the Tapologo Hospice in Freedom Park under the wing of a small group of doctors-cum-missionaries from the United Kingdom.
The objective of the hospice seems, at first glance, rather defeatist: The women who man the small pharmacies and make house calls throughout the disease-riddled town are fully aware of the infected population's mortality rate, and in spite of attempts at prevention therapy (condom distribution, AIDS education sessions) the epidemic's grip on the community has not slackened. The dignity of their efforts, however, is aptly summed up by a visiting Irish priest: After an individual has contracted the virus, he observes, Christianly care is the only useful ecclesiastical reaction. The Tapologo nurses not only prolong and improve the quality of their patients' lives but of their own as well, and the smattering of oral histories in the film emphasize the medicinal properties of fraternal strength even in the face of moribund despair.
Structurally, the film would have benefited from pruning; much information is repeated out of necessity as we revisit the same characters multiple times and gradually piece together their autobiographies. And the attempt in the center of the documentary at representing a full day at the hospice with title cards heralding the start of each hour features far too many distractions—for example, cutaways to lengthy monologues from figures outside the facility—to properly capture the frenzied cadence of the profession. But the directors' judicious patience with their subjects allows them to capture some remarkable storytelling, and even more impressive are the silent montages cycling through five-second video portraits of the hospice's non-English speaking staff. Their worldly, fatigued stares are the most eloquent thing about Tapologo: They communicate the experience of having one foot in the grave but marching forward, regardless.
[Tapologo premieres June 23 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]
Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009: Mrs. Goundo's Daughter
By: Joseph Jon Lanthier On: 06/21/2009 13:15:15 In: Festivals Comments: 0

Bestriding the line between global documentary and social exposé, Mrs. Goundo's Daughter lingers for one squeamish hour on the resilient African tradition of female genital mutilation (or FGM, as it is bureaucratically abbreviated). Juxtaposing interviews with the immigrant of the title—a Malian excision victim seeking asylum in the United States to protect her daughter from a similar fate—and footage captured in her homeland during FGM rituals, the film ponderously examines the practice's tribal significance.
The expected observations are repeated, ad nauseam, including not only vocal support of clitoridectomy as a device to mitigate the natural proclivity of women toward sexual perfidy, but step-by-step descriptions of the procedure itself as well—which up until a decade ago was performed en masse with a single blood-laden scalpel. This provides a wealth of teeth-gritting moments, but the filmmakers neglect to provide more nuanced context that might tourniquet their audience's befuddlement after the initial shock wears off. We're never told, for example, precisely how FGM proliferated so profusely in Islamic nations, so while it appears to possess an aura of sanctity comparable to male circumcision, the lack of historical detail recklessly demonizes its practitioners (both male and female) rather than discovering how they came to inherit the tradition.
Still, the facts of the ritual's steadfast observance are as culturally fascinating as they are tragic (for example, it's common for young girls to be abducted by relatives or neighbors and excised without their parents' knowledge or permission), and in its frequent conversations with female refugees, Mrs. Goundo's Daughter probes the subaltern core of Mali's feminine psychology. Victims of FGM need to convince themselves that they have been abused—by counting the number of weekly deaths from excision, or by recounting the resulting difficulty in childbirth, or by complaining that while husbands support FGM, they favor the sensation of a complete vulva. It occurs to none of these women that even the concept of mutilation may be inherently damaging or subjugating without the attached risks. What Malian society needs is a distaff system of corporeal demystification and celebration—only a culture saturated with intense yonic fear could view asexualizing violence as empowering.
[Mrs. Goundo's Daughter premieres June 21 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]

Bestriding the line between global documentary and social exposé, Mrs. Goundo's Daughter lingers for one squeamish hour on the resilient African tradition of female genital mutilation (or FGM, as it is bureaucratically abbreviated). Juxtaposing interviews with the immigrant of the title—a Malian excision victim seeking asylum in the United States to protect her daughter from a similar fate—and footage captured in her homeland during FGM rituals, the film ponderously examines the practice's tribal significance.
The expected observations are repeated, ad nauseam, including not only vocal support of clitoridectomy as a device to mitigate the natural proclivity of women toward sexual perfidy, but step-by-step descriptions of the procedure itself as well—which up until a decade ago was performed en masse with a single blood-laden scalpel. This provides a wealth of teeth-gritting moments, but the filmmakers neglect to provide more nuanced context that might tourniquet their audience's befuddlement after the initial shock wears off. We're never told, for example, precisely how FGM proliferated so profusely in Islamic nations, so while it appears to possess an aura of sanctity comparable to male circumcision, the lack of historical detail recklessly demonizes its practitioners (both male and female) rather than discovering how they came to inherit the tradition.
Still, the facts of the ritual's steadfast observance are as culturally fascinating as they are tragic (for example, it's common for young girls to be abducted by relatives or neighbors and excised without their parents' knowledge or permission), and in its frequent conversations with female refugees, Mrs. Goundo's Daughter probes the subaltern core of Mali's feminine psychology. Victims of FGM need to convince themselves that they have been abused—by counting the number of weekly deaths from excision, or by recounting the resulting difficulty in childbirth, or by complaining that while husbands support FGM, they favor the sensation of a complete vulva. It occurs to none of these women that even the concept of mutilation may be inherently damaging or subjugating without the attached risks. What Malian society needs is a distaff system of corporeal demystification and celebration—only a culture saturated with intense yonic fear could view asexualizing violence as empowering.
[Mrs. Goundo's Daughter premieres June 21 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]
Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009: Look Into My Eyes
By: Nick Schager On: 06/20/2009 13:48:51 In: Festivals Comments: 0

The title of Naftaly Gliksberg's Look Into My Eyes is an overt reference to its climax, in which the director—outside the courtroom where Holocaust denier Horst Mahler is standing trial—compels one of Mahler's "followers" to stare into his eyes, an act the man doggedly avoids because "Jewish people are part of the devil." Yet moreover, the documentary's moniker functions as an articulation of Gliksberg's modus operandi of visiting an assortment of locales (some of which he has ties to) and candidly discussing prevailing attitudes about Jews and Israel.
Given that the director places himself squarely in the camera's gaze, as well as chooses certain extreme-case examples who deliver familiar over-the-top soundbites, the doc resembles Bill Maher's button-pushing nonfiction comedy Religulous. Whereas Maher approached his non-representational interviewees with condescension, however, Gliksberg proceeds with a mixture of curiosity, apprehension, and dismay, the latter becoming increasingly palpable during chats with people who profess fondness for Jews and then advocate ugly, clichéd stereotypes. A West Virginian big shot with the white supremacist National Alliance—whose anti-Semitism is of a predictable sort—proves far less chilling than a nearby church pastor who assures Gliksberg about his tolerance, only to then add that Israelis are a rude lot who only treat Christians well in order to earn their tourist money, and that by not following the 1914 Balfour Declaration the Jews brought the Holocaust upon themselves.
Still, by only cursorily concentrating on himself, the son of an Israeli rabbi who cast aside his orthodoxy (and his religious wife) upon moving to Paris in his early 20s, Gliksberg forgoes providing highly personal context that might have made up for the haphazard nature of his inquiry, which plucks out topics—the 1991 Crown Heights conflict between blacks and Jews, a notorious French comedian—seemingly at random. Though positioned more as one man's private investigation than as a definitive survey of current global anti-Semitism, the film somewhat falters on both counts, expressing its grief and horror over the persistence of irrational hate frankly and poignantly, but via an easy-target framework from which one can draw only superficial conclusions.
[Look Into My Eyes premieres June 21 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]

The title of Naftaly Gliksberg's Look Into My Eyes is an overt reference to its climax, in which the director—outside the courtroom where Holocaust denier Horst Mahler is standing trial—compels one of Mahler's "followers" to stare into his eyes, an act the man doggedly avoids because "Jewish people are part of the devil." Yet moreover, the documentary's moniker functions as an articulation of Gliksberg's modus operandi of visiting an assortment of locales (some of which he has ties to) and candidly discussing prevailing attitudes about Jews and Israel.
Given that the director places himself squarely in the camera's gaze, as well as chooses certain extreme-case examples who deliver familiar over-the-top soundbites, the doc resembles Bill Maher's button-pushing nonfiction comedy Religulous. Whereas Maher approached his non-representational interviewees with condescension, however, Gliksberg proceeds with a mixture of curiosity, apprehension, and dismay, the latter becoming increasingly palpable during chats with people who profess fondness for Jews and then advocate ugly, clichéd stereotypes. A West Virginian big shot with the white supremacist National Alliance—whose anti-Semitism is of a predictable sort—proves far less chilling than a nearby church pastor who assures Gliksberg about his tolerance, only to then add that Israelis are a rude lot who only treat Christians well in order to earn their tourist money, and that by not following the 1914 Balfour Declaration the Jews brought the Holocaust upon themselves.
Still, by only cursorily concentrating on himself, the son of an Israeli rabbi who cast aside his orthodoxy (and his religious wife) upon moving to Paris in his early 20s, Gliksberg forgoes providing highly personal context that might have made up for the haphazard nature of his inquiry, which plucks out topics—the 1991 Crown Heights conflict between blacks and Jews, a notorious French comedian—seemingly at random. Though positioned more as one man's private investigation than as a definitive survey of current global anti-Semitism, the film somewhat falters on both counts, expressing its grief and horror over the persistence of irrational hate frankly and poignantly, but via an easy-target framework from which one can draw only superficial conclusions.
[Look Into My Eyes premieres June 21 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]
Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009: Afghan Star
By: Joseph Jon Lanthier On: 06/19/2009 13:22:02 In: Festivals Comments: 0

Afghan Star sets out with a delectably postmodern agenda: Closely following four contestants in the eponymous television program, Afghanistan's burqa-busting answer to American Idol, the documentary compassionately argues that one region's pop detritus is another's ideological maturation. After NATO chased the Taliban out of their war torn, totalitarian playground at the urging of the U.S. in 2001, remaining inhabitants were faced with the perplexing novelty of freedom of speech—at least as far as the Qur'an would allow. Broadcasting companies were quickly organized but overcome with the awkwardness of rebuilding media outlets after nearly two generations of stifled silence. The solution was, naturally, to seek a preexisting entertainment model and adapt it for Islamic viewers, and since a flood of American imports had already captivated the celebrity-starved nation, Afghan Star was developed—not only as a source of euphonic escapism, but as a sly way of uniting Afghanistan's collection of perpetually embattled provinces (contestants on the show are drawn from as many diverse corners of the country as possible).
Director Havana Marking's social observations resonate most effectively when she concentrates on the titular TV show itself, and its widespread cult, much of which diagonally illuminates the political context of the populous. After years of enduring unrewarded labor and ubiquitous terrorism, even the most indigent and rural of citizens are obsessed with which member of the ragtag pool of singers on Afghan Star will go home next, especially since the population's own text message votes make the choices. And the performers themselves—despite appearing astoundingly aged in spite of their twentysomethingness—seem to represent the resurrection of what has been for the last 30 years a dormant Afghan culture: A conservative but nonetheless jubilant and even campy musical celebration of Middle-Eastern consciousness (connecting these dots for us, the film shows clips of hilariously kinetic mid-'80s music videos from Afghani TV, most of which sound and look like outtakes from "Addicted to Love"-era Robert Palmer).
There are also, however, reminders that Afghanistan doesn't need the Taliban to subjugate women—they can manage it well enough on their own. Setara, a youthful female contestant, doffs her head-wrap during a passionate number and dances with her hair freely jostling along to her hip rotations. The response from even the girl's fans is spontaneously brutal, with droves of Afghan Star viewers willing to uphold their Muslim taboos with the death penalty. This subplot is essential to understanding the warped, transitional state of Afghan psychology, but it causes the film to lose focus and ethical perspective: Stalling the pop competition's optimistic trajectory, the directors occasionally even sink so low as to use the uncertainty of the alleged heretic's fate for visceral tension.
This misfired episode isn't quite enough to sour the entire documentary, but it does effectively curdle one of its most admirable points: That the voting system of Afghan Star could be viewed as nascent democracy. As the final winner is announced and the end credits roll our thoughts turn not to Thomas Paine or Montesquieu, but the sadistically topsy-turvy republic of Shirley Jackson's The Lottery. Regardless of the governing method, Islamic nations will forever function within the autocratic grip of intransigent fatwas.
[Afghan Star premieres June 20 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]

Afghan Star sets out with a delectably postmodern agenda: Closely following four contestants in the eponymous television program, Afghanistan's burqa-busting answer to American Idol, the documentary compassionately argues that one region's pop detritus is another's ideological maturation. After NATO chased the Taliban out of their war torn, totalitarian playground at the urging of the U.S. in 2001, remaining inhabitants were faced with the perplexing novelty of freedom of speech—at least as far as the Qur'an would allow. Broadcasting companies were quickly organized but overcome with the awkwardness of rebuilding media outlets after nearly two generations of stifled silence. The solution was, naturally, to seek a preexisting entertainment model and adapt it for Islamic viewers, and since a flood of American imports had already captivated the celebrity-starved nation, Afghan Star was developed—not only as a source of euphonic escapism, but as a sly way of uniting Afghanistan's collection of perpetually embattled provinces (contestants on the show are drawn from as many diverse corners of the country as possible).
Director Havana Marking's social observations resonate most effectively when she concentrates on the titular TV show itself, and its widespread cult, much of which diagonally illuminates the political context of the populous. After years of enduring unrewarded labor and ubiquitous terrorism, even the most indigent and rural of citizens are obsessed with which member of the ragtag pool of singers on Afghan Star will go home next, especially since the population's own text message votes make the choices. And the performers themselves—despite appearing astoundingly aged in spite of their twentysomethingness—seem to represent the resurrection of what has been for the last 30 years a dormant Afghan culture: A conservative but nonetheless jubilant and even campy musical celebration of Middle-Eastern consciousness (connecting these dots for us, the film shows clips of hilariously kinetic mid-'80s music videos from Afghani TV, most of which sound and look like outtakes from "Addicted to Love"-era Robert Palmer).
There are also, however, reminders that Afghanistan doesn't need the Taliban to subjugate women—they can manage it well enough on their own. Setara, a youthful female contestant, doffs her head-wrap during a passionate number and dances with her hair freely jostling along to her hip rotations. The response from even the girl's fans is spontaneously brutal, with droves of Afghan Star viewers willing to uphold their Muslim taboos with the death penalty. This subplot is essential to understanding the warped, transitional state of Afghan psychology, but it causes the film to lose focus and ethical perspective: Stalling the pop competition's optimistic trajectory, the directors occasionally even sink so low as to use the uncertainty of the alleged heretic's fate for visceral tension.
This misfired episode isn't quite enough to sour the entire documentary, but it does effectively curdle one of its most admirable points: That the voting system of Afghan Star could be viewed as nascent democracy. As the final winner is announced and the end credits roll our thoughts turn not to Thomas Paine or Montesquieu, but the sadistically topsy-turvy republic of Shirley Jackson's The Lottery. Regardless of the governing method, Islamic nations will forever function within the autocratic grip of intransigent fatwas.
[Afghan Star premieres June 20 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]
Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009: My Neighbor, My Killer
By: Andrew Schenker On: 06/18/2009 13:49:02 In: Festivals Comments: 0

Fast on the heels of Munyurangabo's brief New York run comes Anne Aghion's My Neighbor, My Killer, a documentary that, like Lee Isaac Chung's fictional film, examines the legacy of Rwanda's 1994 genocide. What the movies have in common is that, while directed by outsiders (Chung is Korean-American, Aghion French-American), both scrupulously avoid the glossy reductivism of higher-budget American productions that tend to render historical atrocity both overly familiar (because of recognizable genre tropes) and comfortably distant (because a lack of immediacy). While Chung uses local actors, films in the Kinyarwanda language, and confines the bulk of the action to a single local setting, Aghion deliberately avoids making concessions to viewers unfamiliar with the conflict and, with the exception of a few brief radio snippets, provides very little contextualizing information. Despite the films' weaknesses (in Munyurangabo, a last-minute plot development that seems to absolve the protagonist of having to kill, in My Neighbor a fragmented fly-on-the-wall perspective that, while illuminating, also risks a certain amount of confusion), what is at stake in the two projects is a new authenticity lacking from other Western treatments of the genocide, a respect for the Rwandan people and an understanding of the ways in which tragedy must give way to reconciliation in order for the devastated nation to continue.
Reconciliation is the watchword for the villagers in My Neighbor whether they like it or not. Aghion's video feature, her third project to treat the aftermath of the genocide, tracks the implementation of Gacaca, a unique judicial process instituted by the Rwandan government designed to force an understanding between victim and perpetrator, as it unfolds in a single village. A collection of filmed fragments taken over several years, My Neighbor begins with the release of several alleged war criminals from prison and their return to their native village where they live side-by-side with their victims. Then after eliding several years of (at least hypothetical) reintegration, Aghion films the villages holding open air trials in which townspeople stand up and directly confront the alleged murderers of their husbands and children.
Although the director takes a deliberately nonjudgmental approach, the trial process as it's presented seems of at least questionable efficacy. In the first stage, the returned prisoners mostly avoid contact with the victims and, in the second, mostly deny their direct involvement in atrocity. Along the way Aghion captures some revealing moments of conflict—a gathering in a makeshift bar in which victims sit beside an alleged perpetrator uneasily sharing a beer, the entire concluding trial sequence in which the words of the victims ring out with enough measured outrage to counter the defendants' weak denials—which speak more to the difficulty of reconciliation than to its possibility, or even desirability. If ultimately the work's fragments—like the Gacaca process itself—fail to fully cohere, then the project's privileged look into a unique experiment makes it at least valuable as a document in our ongoing understanding of the lasting implications of genocide.
[My Neighbor, My Killer premieres June 20 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]

Fast on the heels of Munyurangabo's brief New York run comes Anne Aghion's My Neighbor, My Killer, a documentary that, like Lee Isaac Chung's fictional film, examines the legacy of Rwanda's 1994 genocide. What the movies have in common is that, while directed by outsiders (Chung is Korean-American, Aghion French-American), both scrupulously avoid the glossy reductivism of higher-budget American productions that tend to render historical atrocity both overly familiar (because of recognizable genre tropes) and comfortably distant (because a lack of immediacy). While Chung uses local actors, films in the Kinyarwanda language, and confines the bulk of the action to a single local setting, Aghion deliberately avoids making concessions to viewers unfamiliar with the conflict and, with the exception of a few brief radio snippets, provides very little contextualizing information. Despite the films' weaknesses (in Munyurangabo, a last-minute plot development that seems to absolve the protagonist of having to kill, in My Neighbor a fragmented fly-on-the-wall perspective that, while illuminating, also risks a certain amount of confusion), what is at stake in the two projects is a new authenticity lacking from other Western treatments of the genocide, a respect for the Rwandan people and an understanding of the ways in which tragedy must give way to reconciliation in order for the devastated nation to continue.
Reconciliation is the watchword for the villagers in My Neighbor whether they like it or not. Aghion's video feature, her third project to treat the aftermath of the genocide, tracks the implementation of Gacaca, a unique judicial process instituted by the Rwandan government designed to force an understanding between victim and perpetrator, as it unfolds in a single village. A collection of filmed fragments taken over several years, My Neighbor begins with the release of several alleged war criminals from prison and their return to their native village where they live side-by-side with their victims. Then after eliding several years of (at least hypothetical) reintegration, Aghion films the villages holding open air trials in which townspeople stand up and directly confront the alleged murderers of their husbands and children.
Although the director takes a deliberately nonjudgmental approach, the trial process as it's presented seems of at least questionable efficacy. In the first stage, the returned prisoners mostly avoid contact with the victims and, in the second, mostly deny their direct involvement in atrocity. Along the way Aghion captures some revealing moments of conflict—a gathering in a makeshift bar in which victims sit beside an alleged perpetrator uneasily sharing a beer, the entire concluding trial sequence in which the words of the victims ring out with enough measured outrage to counter the defendants' weak denials—which speak more to the difficulty of reconciliation than to its possibility, or even desirability. If ultimately the work's fragments—like the Gacaca process itself—fail to fully cohere, then the project's privileged look into a unique experiment makes it at least valuable as a document in our ongoing understanding of the lasting implications of genocide.
[My Neighbor, My Killer premieres June 20 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]
Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009: Youth Producing Change
By: Eric Henderson On: 06/17/2009 13:38:22 In: Festivals Comments: 0

A second collection of short films created by youth from every far-flung corner of the world and packaged for the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival, Youth Producing Change is almost self-evidently something of a grab bag. But even if the point is obviously to celebrate the intent more than the final product, it's always surprising to hear the state of world affairs as reflected by those who, at least as far as politicians are typically concerned, see more than they tell. The opening piece, I Live in Mozambique, plays a little like a brief addendum to Jean Rouch's Moi, un Noir. Admittedly, Rouch's first-person ethnography took place on the other side of the continent in the Ivory Coast, but both films share a vibrant sort of optimism, all the more impressive in the case of Mozambique's Alcides for the fact that he has seen both his parents die in the previous year to AIDS. His is a rare sort of optimism that can admit his brother collects discarded bottles so he can fill them with contaminated water and sell them. On the flip side in every possible sense is Aquafinito, an American student's exposé of the bottled water industry and its Chinatown-esque machinations against humanity's inherent right to have access to public water supplies. Though it comes off a tad privileged when held against the likes of Mozambique, the animated fable Leila, or, closer to home, In My Shoes (a stylish and all-too-brief dual-pronged portrait of teen homelessness in New York City), Aquafinito is likely still more informative and thorough than any investigative journalism you're likely to see from most American mass media today. Nevertheless, the anthology's true heart reveals itself in pieces such as Noe's Story and Sako, unfettered and determined self-portraits of children who have to fight for their right to be represented by what remains one of the most powerful forms of mass communication in the entire world.
[Youth Producing Change premieres June 19 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]

A second collection of short films created by youth from every far-flung corner of the world and packaged for the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival, Youth Producing Change is almost self-evidently something of a grab bag. But even if the point is obviously to celebrate the intent more than the final product, it's always surprising to hear the state of world affairs as reflected by those who, at least as far as politicians are typically concerned, see more than they tell. The opening piece, I Live in Mozambique, plays a little like a brief addendum to Jean Rouch's Moi, un Noir. Admittedly, Rouch's first-person ethnography took place on the other side of the continent in the Ivory Coast, but both films share a vibrant sort of optimism, all the more impressive in the case of Mozambique's Alcides for the fact that he has seen both his parents die in the previous year to AIDS. His is a rare sort of optimism that can admit his brother collects discarded bottles so he can fill them with contaminated water and sell them. On the flip side in every possible sense is Aquafinito, an American student's exposé of the bottled water industry and its Chinatown-esque machinations against humanity's inherent right to have access to public water supplies. Though it comes off a tad privileged when held against the likes of Mozambique, the animated fable Leila, or, closer to home, In My Shoes (a stylish and all-too-brief dual-pronged portrait of teen homelessness in New York City), Aquafinito is likely still more informative and thorough than any investigative journalism you're likely to see from most American mass media today. Nevertheless, the anthology's true heart reveals itself in pieces such as Noe's Story and Sako, unfettered and determined self-portraits of children who have to fight for their right to be represented by what remains one of the most powerful forms of mass communication in the entire world.
[Youth Producing Change premieres June 19 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]
Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009: Back Home Tomorrow
By: Eric Henderson On: 06/16/2009 16:14:48 In: Festivals Comments: 0

The documentary Back Home Tomorrow blazes out of the gates with a form/content double-shot—high-contrast, Meirellesian HD images capturing every spec of dirt and grue clinging to the petrified face and heaving torso of a seven-year-old Afghan boy injured after playing with an undetonated mine. "Call my father! I'm dying," he sobs, as premature awareness of his own mortality dawns incongruously on his cherubic face before directors Fabrizio Lazzaretti and Paolo Santolini show the right arm that now ends at the halfway point and the flaps of skin that used to be his left hand's fingers. The boy, Murtaza, is at the center of two parallel stories. The other involves Yagoub, a 15-year-old boy refugee from Khartoum whose medical crisis—he needs an expensive surgery or else his heart will continue to expand within his chest, killing him within a year's time—is presented against the imposing aftermath of the second Sudanese Civil War. Lazzaretti and Santolini frame Yagoub's struggle against his own suggestively symbolic heart muscle within scenes depicting his mother's resigned reaction to the price tag ($5,000, which may as well be a million...and, in fact, is, in Sudanese pounds) and his community's emphasis on highly physical, full-contact masculinity (the filmmakers dwell at length on an almost balletic wrestling match). Both Murtaza and Yagoub are victims of war; the former is trapped inside a hospital during a long and painful rehabilitation, while the latter is kept outside by the alternately prohibitive and exploitive costs of medical care. That said, their stories are unique enough that one wishes they'd each been given their own individual film. While it doesn't diminish the inherent emotional power of each boy's plight to put them through the gauntlet of crosscuts, there is enough disjoint to put the entire project's narrative thrust in jeopardy. Nonetheless, Lazzaretti and Santolini are diligent enough documentarians that they capture moments of moral clarity, such as when the weeping mother of a mine victim thumbprints her consent to the surgery, using a piece of her own anatomy to allow doctors permission to remove the same piece from her son.
[Back Home Tomorrow premieres June 19 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]

The documentary Back Home Tomorrow blazes out of the gates with a form/content double-shot—high-contrast, Meirellesian HD images capturing every spec of dirt and grue clinging to the petrified face and heaving torso of a seven-year-old Afghan boy injured after playing with an undetonated mine. "Call my father! I'm dying," he sobs, as premature awareness of his own mortality dawns incongruously on his cherubic face before directors Fabrizio Lazzaretti and Paolo Santolini show the right arm that now ends at the halfway point and the flaps of skin that used to be his left hand's fingers. The boy, Murtaza, is at the center of two parallel stories. The other involves Yagoub, a 15-year-old boy refugee from Khartoum whose medical crisis—he needs an expensive surgery or else his heart will continue to expand within his chest, killing him within a year's time—is presented against the imposing aftermath of the second Sudanese Civil War. Lazzaretti and Santolini frame Yagoub's struggle against his own suggestively symbolic heart muscle within scenes depicting his mother's resigned reaction to the price tag ($5,000, which may as well be a million...and, in fact, is, in Sudanese pounds) and his community's emphasis on highly physical, full-contact masculinity (the filmmakers dwell at length on an almost balletic wrestling match). Both Murtaza and Yagoub are victims of war; the former is trapped inside a hospital during a long and painful rehabilitation, while the latter is kept outside by the alternately prohibitive and exploitive costs of medical care. That said, their stories are unique enough that one wishes they'd each been given their own individual film. While it doesn't diminish the inherent emotional power of each boy's plight to put them through the gauntlet of crosscuts, there is enough disjoint to put the entire project's narrative thrust in jeopardy. Nonetheless, Lazzaretti and Santolini are diligent enough documentarians that they capture moments of moral clarity, such as when the weeping mother of a mine victim thumbprints her consent to the surgery, using a piece of her own anatomy to allow doctors permission to remove the same piece from her son.
[Back Home Tomorrow premieres June 19 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]
Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009: Remnants of a War
By: Bill Weber On: 06/15/2009 15:30:16 In: Festivals Comments: 0

"I should have a normal job," gripes a young Lebanese man to one of his teammates on a bomb-clearance squad in Remnants of a War, and the flat, unsentimental reply comes: "You talk like we're in Europe." In the wake of Israel's 33-day invasion of Lebanon in the summer of 2006 (in response to Hezbollah kidnappings of Israeli soldiers, and only six years after Israel had withdrawn forces that had occupied Lebanon since 1982), thousands of cluster munitions fired or dropped in the southern part of the country had left uncounted unexploded "bomblets" in orchards, homes, and roads. With casualties mounting after residents returned from exile in Beirut, only to be maimed or killed by a hidden "dud" that was stepped on or dislodged, private companies recruited citizens to assume the bulk of "de-mining" patrols from an overwhelmed United Nations disposal unit. The title of Jawad Metni's documentary refers doubly to the legacy of the bomblets' menace and the crippled economy that forces the film's trainees to turn to bomb clearance—it's postwar Lebanon's only growth industry. (One engaged couple works together on a bomb team in the hope that their marriage will finally come off when they've earned enough to buy a house, after seeing earlier savings eaten up by wartime relocation and the fizzling of their pre-bombardment careers.) Academics and Human Rights Watch analysts place the population's struggles into historical and geopolitical context, and despite perhaps an excess of atmospheric down-time dancing scenes, Metni foregrounds the ever-present threat the Lebanese are trying to erase by punctuating his footage with isolated, medium-long shots of the crack and puff of another munition being detonated by the de-miners in a verdant, sunny landscape. Remnants of a War's explicit questions linger: What would another occupation bring, and when will Israel and the U.S. join 111 nations in signing a cluster-bomb ban agreement?
[Remnants of a War premieres June 17 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]

"I should have a normal job," gripes a young Lebanese man to one of his teammates on a bomb-clearance squad in Remnants of a War, and the flat, unsentimental reply comes: "You talk like we're in Europe." In the wake of Israel's 33-day invasion of Lebanon in the summer of 2006 (in response to Hezbollah kidnappings of Israeli soldiers, and only six years after Israel had withdrawn forces that had occupied Lebanon since 1982), thousands of cluster munitions fired or dropped in the southern part of the country had left uncounted unexploded "bomblets" in orchards, homes, and roads. With casualties mounting after residents returned from exile in Beirut, only to be maimed or killed by a hidden "dud" that was stepped on or dislodged, private companies recruited citizens to assume the bulk of "de-mining" patrols from an overwhelmed United Nations disposal unit. The title of Jawad Metni's documentary refers doubly to the legacy of the bomblets' menace and the crippled economy that forces the film's trainees to turn to bomb clearance—it's postwar Lebanon's only growth industry. (One engaged couple works together on a bomb team in the hope that their marriage will finally come off when they've earned enough to buy a house, after seeing earlier savings eaten up by wartime relocation and the fizzling of their pre-bombardment careers.) Academics and Human Rights Watch analysts place the population's struggles into historical and geopolitical context, and despite perhaps an excess of atmospheric down-time dancing scenes, Metni foregrounds the ever-present threat the Lebanese are trying to erase by punctuating his footage with isolated, medium-long shots of the crack and puff of another munition being detonated by the de-miners in a verdant, sunny landscape. Remnants of a War's explicit questions linger: What would another occupation bring, and when will Israel and the U.S. join 111 nations in signing a cluster-bomb ban agreement?
[Remnants of a War premieres June 17 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]
Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009: In the Holy Fire of Revolution
By: Lauren Wissot On: 06/14/2009 16:23:20 In: Festivals Comments: 0

On its surface, Masha Novikova's In the Holy Fire of Revolution, which follows the Russian chess champion and activist/politician Garry Kasparov as he and his comrades in The Other Russia movement wage a campaign battle against Vladimir Putin and his supporters, would suggest The War Room Russky-style. Unfortunately, the doc doesn't sizzle like its title, but merely fizzles out. Novikova, instead of digging deep into the heart of the former Soviet Union, is merely content to toe the party line, trotting out all the usual dissident suspects to needlessly remind us that Putin's Russia is a thug state. The main problem with Revolution is that it tells us nothing new, but merely shows us what anyone who's tuned in to any international media outlet since the turn of the century already knew. That Kasparov's contingent would hold their meetings in a crumbling, commie-drab building by candlelight since the electricity was cut off, and that a young mother working for the Kasparov side could be brutally attacked with a baseball bat, is sad, but not the least bit surprising or illuminating.
Not to mention the least bit cinematic—and trying to liven up the boring proceedings by interspersing footage of Kasparov's sedate chess matches with propagandistic rallies doesn't do much to help Novikova's cause. While white subtitles on a usually white background make the translation nearly impossible to discern, the straightforward interviews with Kasparov are even more frustrating. Here is a gregarious man every bit as media savvy as Vladimir Putin, who knows when to play the strongman and how to soothe an insulted war vet. And yet Kasparov's manipulation of his own image—revealed when he shows a photojournalist which poses work best—doesn't even occur until an hour and a half into the film! Though The Other Russia refers to the 85% of the population not benefiting economically from Putin's reign, Novikova's exclusive focus on Kasparov and his fight for this hardworking silent majority comes at the expense of the other 15% that could have given her doc the dramatic tension it sorely lacks.
Indeed, Kasparov's party's first clash with Putin's supporters doesn't happen until a full 45 minutes into the film. And Revolution only gets interesting when Kasparov begins to lose his chess player's cool, calling members of Putin's Young Guard "worthless" people with "vacant eyes." And speaking of youth, where is the Internet in all this political organizing? While Kasparov is forever complaining that state-run media keeps his message from getting heard, not once is anyone in The Other Russia shown attempting to organize young activists online. With such wild accusations of Kasparov as an "American pawn" and a "journalist for The Washington Post" being thrown by Putin's youth movement, there is no doubt that these "vacant-eyed" twentysomethings are tuning in and logging on. So if anemic activist filmmaking like this, as uninspired as the monotonous protests that probably make Putin chuckle, is any indication of Russian apathy, it's no wonder the chess champ lost to a master political player—who won with the same percentage of the total vote as the number of squares on a chessboard.
[In the Holy Fire of Revolution premieres June 15 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]

On its surface, Masha Novikova's In the Holy Fire of Revolution, which follows the Russian chess champion and activist/politician Garry Kasparov as he and his comrades in The Other Russia movement wage a campaign battle against Vladimir Putin and his supporters, would suggest The War Room Russky-style. Unfortunately, the doc doesn't sizzle like its title, but merely fizzles out. Novikova, instead of digging deep into the heart of the former Soviet Union, is merely content to toe the party line, trotting out all the usual dissident suspects to needlessly remind us that Putin's Russia is a thug state. The main problem with Revolution is that it tells us nothing new, but merely shows us what anyone who's tuned in to any international media outlet since the turn of the century already knew. That Kasparov's contingent would hold their meetings in a crumbling, commie-drab building by candlelight since the electricity was cut off, and that a young mother working for the Kasparov side could be brutally attacked with a baseball bat, is sad, but not the least bit surprising or illuminating.
Not to mention the least bit cinematic—and trying to liven up the boring proceedings by interspersing footage of Kasparov's sedate chess matches with propagandistic rallies doesn't do much to help Novikova's cause. While white subtitles on a usually white background make the translation nearly impossible to discern, the straightforward interviews with Kasparov are even more frustrating. Here is a gregarious man every bit as media savvy as Vladimir Putin, who knows when to play the strongman and how to soothe an insulted war vet. And yet Kasparov's manipulation of his own image—revealed when he shows a photojournalist which poses work best—doesn't even occur until an hour and a half into the film! Though The Other Russia refers to the 85% of the population not benefiting economically from Putin's reign, Novikova's exclusive focus on Kasparov and his fight for this hardworking silent majority comes at the expense of the other 15% that could have given her doc the dramatic tension it sorely lacks.
Indeed, Kasparov's party's first clash with Putin's supporters doesn't happen until a full 45 minutes into the film. And Revolution only gets interesting when Kasparov begins to lose his chess player's cool, calling members of Putin's Young Guard "worthless" people with "vacant eyes." And speaking of youth, where is the Internet in all this political organizing? While Kasparov is forever complaining that state-run media keeps his message from getting heard, not once is anyone in The Other Russia shown attempting to organize young activists online. With such wild accusations of Kasparov as an "American pawn" and a "journalist for The Washington Post" being thrown by Putin's youth movement, there is no doubt that these "vacant-eyed" twentysomethings are tuning in and logging on. So if anemic activist filmmaking like this, as uninspired as the monotonous protests that probably make Putin chuckle, is any indication of Russian apathy, it's no wonder the chess champ lost to a master political player—who won with the same percentage of the total vote as the number of squares on a chessboard.
[In the Holy Fire of Revolution premieres June 15 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]
Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009: Kabuli Kid
By: Nick Schager On: 06/13/2009 13:40:01 In: Festivals Comments: 0

Kabuli Kid boasts the neorealism of contemporary Iranian cinema (and its American practitioners, like Ramin Bahrani), a mode that lends its story authenticity even during excessively didactic moments. In a beaten-up Kabul where citizens bemoan the fallout of U.S. bombings with a resignation born from familiarity with conflict, taxi driver Khaled (Hadji Gul) picks up a woman wearing a blue veil, who then leaves her newborn son in his cab. Unable to find the missing mother, Khaled—who criticizes women for covering their faces, yet nonetheless treats his wife as a servant and openly wishes she had begat him sons instead of daughters—finds himself stuck with the infant. It's a scenario Afghan director Barmak Akram mines for neither cutesy humor nor undue mawkishness, the filmmaker delivering a story not about a man redeemed by an adorable cherub, but rather, about the grim realities of life in war-ravaged Kabul. Losing work and income because of his babysitting duties, the strain compounded by his father's complaints about his chosen job, Khaled goes to increasingly desperate and unpleasant ends to relieve himself of his newfound burden, attempting to pass off on others the problem that's landed in his lap.
The film's socio-political chatter frequently lacks subtlety, raising issues with a bluntness at odds with the otherwise patient, naturalistic atmosphere. If too eager to italicize its larger concerns, however, the film's attention to detail is redeeming, frankly capturing a national mood comprised of pride, bitterness, self-interest, and defeatism. The exploitative greed of Kabul's marketplace vendors operates hand-in-hand with the not-my-problem selfishness exhibited by social service workers, with Akram depicting his milieu and its inhabitants as struggling to face the obligations that arise from their complicated circumstances. Refusing to resort to bogus uplift, the director posits characters as recognizably flawed individuals, and his tale as one—ending with the articulation of a child's name—whose happy ending remains in question.
[Kabuli Kid premieres June 14 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]

Kabuli Kid boasts the neorealism of contemporary Iranian cinema (and its American practitioners, like Ramin Bahrani), a mode that lends its story authenticity even during excessively didactic moments. In a beaten-up Kabul where citizens bemoan the fallout of U.S. bombings with a resignation born from familiarity with conflict, taxi driver Khaled (Hadji Gul) picks up a woman wearing a blue veil, who then leaves her newborn son in his cab. Unable to find the missing mother, Khaled—who criticizes women for covering their faces, yet nonetheless treats his wife as a servant and openly wishes she had begat him sons instead of daughters—finds himself stuck with the infant. It's a scenario Afghan director Barmak Akram mines for neither cutesy humor nor undue mawkishness, the filmmaker delivering a story not about a man redeemed by an adorable cherub, but rather, about the grim realities of life in war-ravaged Kabul. Losing work and income because of his babysitting duties, the strain compounded by his father's complaints about his chosen job, Khaled goes to increasingly desperate and unpleasant ends to relieve himself of his newfound burden, attempting to pass off on others the problem that's landed in his lap.
The film's socio-political chatter frequently lacks subtlety, raising issues with a bluntness at odds with the otherwise patient, naturalistic atmosphere. If too eager to italicize its larger concerns, however, the film's attention to detail is redeeming, frankly capturing a national mood comprised of pride, bitterness, self-interest, and defeatism. The exploitative greed of Kabul's marketplace vendors operates hand-in-hand with the not-my-problem selfishness exhibited by social service workers, with Akram depicting his milieu and its inhabitants as struggling to face the obligations that arise from their complicated circumstances. Refusing to resort to bogus uplift, the director posits characters as recognizably flawed individuals, and his tale as one—ending with the articulation of a child's name—whose happy ending remains in question.
[Kabuli Kid premieres June 14 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]
Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009: Snow
By: Bill Weber On: 06/13/2009 13:38:03 In: Festivals Comments: 0

The desolate and benumbed shell of an eastern Bosnian village in 1997 is the setting for Snow, as a population of a dozen survivors of the Balkan strife—save for one elder, all women and children—wait in vain for their missing husbands and children to return. Young widow Alma (Zana Marjanovic), occupied with the daily work of preparing fruit and vegetables for difficult-to-reach markets, is seen in recurring sequences twisting her scarf slowly around her head, bathing her limbs hurriedly en route to morning prayer, attempting to crowd out her fresh trauma with the everyday. She and her fellow mourners are pushed to resolve their pain when a Serbian representative of foreign developers offers to buy their land, touching off existential confrontations within the community as well as in the hearts of these scarred mothers and wives, who venerate even the eyeglasses and disposable razors left behind by their lost mates. Director Aida Begic does well in establishing the women's dogged labor as grief put into memorial, kinetic action, as well as with the magical-realist figure of the village's sole, terrified young boy, whose rapidly growing hair and panicked dashes through the countryside are spurred by the terror of his nightmares. Less smooth is the heavy weight put on the visiting land-sale agents, whose final confrontation with the matriarchs leads to an awful revelation and the falling of the previously allusive snow. Alma's punishing, weak-hearted mother-in-law (Vesna Masic) unexpectedly rallies from illness to unleash her will to remain in her native place; told condescendingly, "You deserve better living conditions," she snaps, "Yeah!" and orders the land buyers about like lackeys. Snow finds unity of purpose in different responses to its villagers' tragic inheritance—the Muslim elder's "Allah sees it all," and Alma's visceral answer to what constitutes a normal existence: "Us."
[Snow premieres June 13 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]

The desolate and benumbed shell of an eastern Bosnian village in 1997 is the setting for Snow, as a population of a dozen survivors of the Balkan strife—save for one elder, all women and children—wait in vain for their missing husbands and children to return. Young widow Alma (Zana Marjanovic), occupied with the daily work of preparing fruit and vegetables for difficult-to-reach markets, is seen in recurring sequences twisting her scarf slowly around her head, bathing her limbs hurriedly en route to morning prayer, attempting to crowd out her fresh trauma with the everyday. She and her fellow mourners are pushed to resolve their pain when a Serbian representative of foreign developers offers to buy their land, touching off existential confrontations within the community as well as in the hearts of these scarred mothers and wives, who venerate even the eyeglasses and disposable razors left behind by their lost mates. Director Aida Begic does well in establishing the women's dogged labor as grief put into memorial, kinetic action, as well as with the magical-realist figure of the village's sole, terrified young boy, whose rapidly growing hair and panicked dashes through the countryside are spurred by the terror of his nightmares. Less smooth is the heavy weight put on the visiting land-sale agents, whose final confrontation with the matriarchs leads to an awful revelation and the falling of the previously allusive snow. Alma's punishing, weak-hearted mother-in-law (Vesna Masic) unexpectedly rallies from illness to unleash her will to remain in her native place; told condescendingly, "You deserve better living conditions," she snaps, "Yeah!" and orders the land buyers about like lackeys. Snow finds unity of purpose in different responses to its villagers' tragic inheritance—the Muslim elder's "Allah sees it all," and Alma's visceral answer to what constitutes a normal existence: "Us."
[Snow premieres June 13 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]
Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009: Crude
By: Fernando F. Croce On: 06/12/2009 16:03:05 In: Festivals Comments: 0

At the center of Joe Berlinger's Crude are distressing images of Ecuador's Amazonian soil and water turned sludgy and toxic from foreign oil drilling. Concisely and infuriatingly illustrating the link between ecological devastation and corporate colonialism, these scabrous views of rainforest-turned-waste-pits are the starting point for the veteran documentarian's tough-minded chronicle of a court case that has spun decades and showcased the most viscous effects of conglomerate interest. The protracted tug of war depicted is between Ecuadorean activists (led by lawyer Pablo Fajardo and environmentalist Luis Yanza) and Chevron over the contaminating effects of the oil company's maneuvers on the land. Despite 30,000 indigenous people acting as plaintiffs and Chevron's own estimation of 17 million gallons of spilled petrol, the class action lawsuit endures endless delays, judicial labyrinths, and prevaricating officials.
Following a still-unresolved case over the course of three years, Berlinger gives voice to both sides of the conflict. As personal accounts of birth defects and cancerous deaths contrast with Chevron spokespersons denying effects and passing blame, however, the outraged compassion in the filmmaker's reportage becomes evident. A polished and haunting work of humanistic journalism, the film is passionate enough to follow its subjects in the ground-level combat of street demonstrations and office showdowns, and astute enough to understand the important roles a Vanity Fair article or a Trudie Styler endorsement can play in a cause. Crude is both a tribute to human-rights tenacity and a sobering account of the multinational-Moloch greed that can keep justice in limbo.
[Crude premieres June 13 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]

At the center of Joe Berlinger's Crude are distressing images of Ecuador's Amazonian soil and water turned sludgy and toxic from foreign oil drilling. Concisely and infuriatingly illustrating the link between ecological devastation and corporate colonialism, these scabrous views of rainforest-turned-waste-pits are the starting point for the veteran documentarian's tough-minded chronicle of a court case that has spun decades and showcased the most viscous effects of conglomerate interest. The protracted tug of war depicted is between Ecuadorean activists (led by lawyer Pablo Fajardo and environmentalist Luis Yanza) and Chevron over the contaminating effects of the oil company's maneuvers on the land. Despite 30,000 indigenous people acting as plaintiffs and Chevron's own estimation of 17 million gallons of spilled petrol, the class action lawsuit endures endless delays, judicial labyrinths, and prevaricating officials.
Following a still-unresolved case over the course of three years, Berlinger gives voice to both sides of the conflict. As personal accounts of birth defects and cancerous deaths contrast with Chevron spokespersons denying effects and passing blame, however, the outraged compassion in the filmmaker's reportage becomes evident. A polished and haunting work of humanistic journalism, the film is passionate enough to follow its subjects in the ground-level combat of street demonstrations and office showdowns, and astute enough to understand the important roles a Vanity Fair article or a Trudie Styler endorsement can play in a cause. Crude is both a tribute to human-rights tenacity and a sobering account of the multinational-Moloch greed that can keep justice in limbo.
[Crude premieres June 13 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]
Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009: The Age of Stupid
By: Andrew Schenker On: 06/12/2009 14:51:49 In: Festivals Comments: 0

Looking back from the vantage point of a devastated, CG-crafted future, Franny Armstrong's cautionary climate change tale The Age of Stupid outlines the present day ills that, in the film's hypothetical setting, effectively made the world uninhabitable by 2055. As the Sydney opera house burns and the Taj Mahal lies in ruins, Pete Postlethwaite sits in the global archives—a digital repository of all that's valuable in our vanished civilization—recording a jeremiad against our current age of willful ignorance. In between teary laments, the actor, playing some combination of last survivor and himself, introduces clips from the archive, documentary snippets from the present day that make up the bulk of the film's content.
Taking the form of individual profiles, these segments chronicle the collateral damage of global warming and its principal agent, the unending quest for oil (Iraqi children seeking refuge from the war in Jordan, a Nigerian village decimated by Shell's involvement in their area) as well as the efforts of a few activists to combat climate change, both locally and globally. But if Armstrong seems to endorse these gestures of individual activism, her film nonetheless registers a largely pessimistic attitude toward their efficacy, as in a lengthy segment chronicling the dogged efforts and eventual defeat of one man's project to install a wind powered farm in the English countryside. Only a global system of carbon rationing, a plan outlined in a voiceover interlude, seems to earn Armstrong's full endorsement as a means of averting the film's imagined apocalypse, but given the oil companies' stranglehold on world government that the director outlines throughout the movie, the implementation of such a program seems hopelessly quixotic.
Moving between macro-level interludes and micro-level portraits, framed by a worst case future scenario (though one that, per an introductory title, is "based on mainstream scientific projections"), Age of Stupid communicates something of the massive global impact of our careless, though officially encouraged, consumption as well as the human cost of such a program, even if Armstrong's outsized ambitions threaten to dissipate some of the movie's force. Still, while steeped in an inevitable negativity, her film is nothing if not rousing (though less through its sci-fi scare tactics and more via its portrait of the widespread damage already being inflicted on the planet), and if its mode is unapologetically didactic, then in a society in which 60 percent of the people believe, scientific evidence to the contrary, that man has no appreciable impact on climate change, then perhaps a round of didacticism is precisely what we need.
[The Age of Stupid premieres June 13 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]

Looking back from the vantage point of a devastated, CG-crafted future, Franny Armstrong's cautionary climate change tale The Age of Stupid outlines the present day ills that, in the film's hypothetical setting, effectively made the world uninhabitable by 2055. As the Sydney opera house burns and the Taj Mahal lies in ruins, Pete Postlethwaite sits in the global archives—a digital repository of all that's valuable in our vanished civilization—recording a jeremiad against our current age of willful ignorance. In between teary laments, the actor, playing some combination of last survivor and himself, introduces clips from the archive, documentary snippets from the present day that make up the bulk of the film's content.
Taking the form of individual profiles, these segments chronicle the collateral damage of global warming and its principal agent, the unending quest for oil (Iraqi children seeking refuge from the war in Jordan, a Nigerian village decimated by Shell's involvement in their area) as well as the efforts of a few activists to combat climate change, both locally and globally. But if Armstrong seems to endorse these gestures of individual activism, her film nonetheless registers a largely pessimistic attitude toward their efficacy, as in a lengthy segment chronicling the dogged efforts and eventual defeat of one man's project to install a wind powered farm in the English countryside. Only a global system of carbon rationing, a plan outlined in a voiceover interlude, seems to earn Armstrong's full endorsement as a means of averting the film's imagined apocalypse, but given the oil companies' stranglehold on world government that the director outlines throughout the movie, the implementation of such a program seems hopelessly quixotic.
Moving between macro-level interludes and micro-level portraits, framed by a worst case future scenario (though one that, per an introductory title, is "based on mainstream scientific projections"), Age of Stupid communicates something of the massive global impact of our careless, though officially encouraged, consumption as well as the human cost of such a program, even if Armstrong's outsized ambitions threaten to dissipate some of the movie's force. Still, while steeped in an inevitable negativity, her film is nothing if not rousing (though less through its sci-fi scare tactics and more via its portrait of the widespread damage already being inflicted on the planet), and if its mode is unapologetically didactic, then in a society in which 60 percent of the people believe, scientific evidence to the contrary, that man has no appreciable impact on climate change, then perhaps a round of didacticism is precisely what we need.
[The Age of Stupid premieres June 13 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]
If at First You Don't Succeed, Try, Try a Gun
By: Sal Cinquemani On: 06/11/2009 19:11:59 In: Politics Comments: 2

A good friend of mine worked at Planned Parenthood on the West Coast a few years ago. Though she was and still is fiercely pro-choice, she eventually left the clinic because administering abortions, even early ones, was too emotionally and mentally taxing for her. It never occurred to me that her job might have put her in physical danger, or that the protesters she encountered daily (it was a conservative town, after all) might have had some sort of impact on her decision to leave. In fact, she never even mentioned the picket lines to me. I spoke to her last night and asked if she'd ever felt at risk while working at the clinic. She told me she always felt safe. She also asked me not to mention her name in this piece.
Of course, my friend worked at Planned Parenthood during the Bush administration, which enacted the first federal law criminalizing second-trimester abortions and which went so far as to define birth control as abortion. The pro-life movement was getting what it wanted, and according to the National Abortion Federation, the number of reported death threats, clinic bombings, and attempted murders of clinic employees decreased between 2001 and 2008.
That all changed when, after losing control of the House in 2006, the right lost both the Senate and the White House last November. Since then, there has been an uptick in rightwing extremist violence. Threats against abortion providers reportedly spiked in January and have continued to increase throughout the first half of the year, coming to national attention less than two weeks ago with the murder of Dr. George Tiller, a Kansas physician who performed legal late abortions and who was gunned down in his own church by Scott Roeder, a known member of the anti-abortion movement. Tiller became the first death at the hands of anti-abortion extremists in 11 years—and the eighth since Roe vs. Wade.
It's important to call Tiller's murder, and the thousands of other acts of violence, vandalism, burglaries, kidnappings, stalkings, threats, and mischief that have taken place in the name of the anti-abortion movement, what they are: acts of domestic terrorism. Indeed, Tiller's murder was a political act, as was the shooting of a security guard at the National Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C. yesterday. James von Brunn is a white supremacist, an anti-Semite, and a Holocaust denier; he is also a convicted felon, which means the .22-caliber rifle he used to murder Stephen Tyrone Johns, who had worked at the museum for six years, was obtained illegally.
Both Roeder and von Brunn were seemingly lone wolves, but they are part of a larger movement of rightwing extremism that has emerged from the dark, shadowy corners of this country in recent months and which was accurately and prudently forecasted by the Department of Homeland Security's Office of Intelligence and Analysis earlier this year. The report, unambiguously titled "Rightwing Extremism: Current Economic and Political Climate Fueling Resurgence in Radicalization and Recruitment," cited a perfect storm of economic hard times, the election of a black president, the promise of social change, and the return of Iraq and Afghanistan war veterans susceptible to the recruitment of white-power militias, as grounds for the alert. It was eloquently referred to as a "piece of crap report" by the likes of this piece of crap blogger, and DHS Secretary Janet Napolitano was forced to issue an apologia of sorts—despite the fact that the study was started during the previous administration.
That Roeder and von Brunn may have been lone wolves does not absolve others in the ideological groups to which they belong from culpability. Anti-abortion organizations with which Roeder is affiliated are indeed responsible. Operation Rescue—whose founder, Randall Terry, claimed that the anti-abortion movement was not responsible for Tiller's murder and then in the same breath proclaimed that the doctor "reaped what he sowed"—claims that Roeder has never been a member, contributor, or volunteer for their organization. But convicted terrorist and current Operation Rescue senior policy advisor Cheryl Sullenger has admitted to having multiple phone conversations with Roeder about Dr. Tiller. According to Rachel Maddow, who has admirably refused to let the story die while most mainstream news outlets have, Operation Rescue kept tabs on Tiller both on its website and on Sullenger's Twitter account. And as is evidently the practice of many anti-abortion groups, the organization posted the addresses for both Tiller's private home and church on its website. His church. What other purpose would it serve to post that information other than to furnish activists and extremists—that is, would-be assassins—with the necessary information to commit their crimes?
And crimes are exactly what these people are committing. In a piece for Air America, "Dr. George Tiller Didn't Have to Die," Amy Goodman detailed Roeder's offenses, including gluing shut the doors of a nearby clinic twice during the week leading up to Tiller's death, and suggested that simple law enforcement could have prevented the gruesome murder. Both Goodman and Maddow have called attention to the federal Freedom of Access to Clinic Entrances Act (FACE), which makes blocking or damaging an abortion clinic's entrance a federal crime. FACE went largely unenforced under George W. Bush and clearly remains ineffective today.
Last night, Michigan representative Mike Rogers told Chris Matthews that crimes by fringe extremists like Roeder and von Brunn have "no connection to mainstream politics." But the rhetoric that propels, emboldens, and even creates these monsters comes directly from the mouths of the Republican establishment. Bill O'Reilly made repeated reference to "Tiller the Baby Killer" on his TV show, claiming that the doctor "execut[ed] babies about to be born," and compared his practice to the slaughter of the Jews in Nazi Germany. Von Brunn believes that Barack Obama isn't an American citizen, that—according to his own website—the president was "sent" to the United States to further the "Jew/Negro" agenda. In February, Alabama Senator Richard Shelby questioned Obama's citizenship, telling a local resident "I haven't seen any birth certificate. You have to be born in America to be president." And as recently as this week, the unofficial "Voice of the GOP," Rush Limbaugh, declared that the only thing Obama has in common with God is that "neither of them has a birth certificate."
This kind of incendiary race baiting and hate speech might be good entertainment, but it makes for risky politics. And it puts human lives at risk. Those on the left have been gleeful that the GOP is drumming itself out of the mainstream, but the right has been incessantly drumming a dangerously bigoted beat for months, propagating the kind of myths, lies, and conspiracy theories on which those on the outer fringes feed, breed, and kill.

A good friend of mine worked at Planned Parenthood on the West Coast a few years ago. Though she was and still is fiercely pro-choice, she eventually left the clinic because administering abortions, even early ones, was too emotionally and mentally taxing for her. It never occurred to me that her job might have put her in physical danger, or that the protesters she encountered daily (it was a conservative town, after all) might have had some sort of impact on her decision to leave. In fact, she never even mentioned the picket lines to me. I spoke to her last night and asked if she'd ever felt at risk while working at the clinic. She told me she always felt safe. She also asked me not to mention her name in this piece.
Of course, my friend worked at Planned Parenthood during the Bush administration, which enacted the first federal law criminalizing second-trimester abortions and which went so far as to define birth control as abortion. The pro-life movement was getting what it wanted, and according to the National Abortion Federation, the number of reported death threats, clinic bombings, and attempted murders of clinic employees decreased between 2001 and 2008.
That all changed when, after losing control of the House in 2006, the right lost both the Senate and the White House last November. Since then, there has been an uptick in rightwing extremist violence. Threats against abortion providers reportedly spiked in January and have continued to increase throughout the first half of the year, coming to national attention less than two weeks ago with the murder of Dr. George Tiller, a Kansas physician who performed legal late abortions and who was gunned down in his own church by Scott Roeder, a known member of the anti-abortion movement. Tiller became the first death at the hands of anti-abortion extremists in 11 years—and the eighth since Roe vs. Wade.
It's important to call Tiller's murder, and the thousands of other acts of violence, vandalism, burglaries, kidnappings, stalkings, threats, and mischief that have taken place in the name of the anti-abortion movement, what they are: acts of domestic terrorism. Indeed, Tiller's murder was a political act, as was the shooting of a security guard at the National Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C. yesterday. James von Brunn is a white supremacist, an anti-Semite, and a Holocaust denier; he is also a convicted felon, which means the .22-caliber rifle he used to murder Stephen Tyrone Johns, who had worked at the museum for six years, was obtained illegally.
Both Roeder and von Brunn were seemingly lone wolves, but they are part of a larger movement of rightwing extremism that has emerged from the dark, shadowy corners of this country in recent months and which was accurately and prudently forecasted by the Department of Homeland Security's Office of Intelligence and Analysis earlier this year. The report, unambiguously titled "Rightwing Extremism: Current Economic and Political Climate Fueling Resurgence in Radicalization and Recruitment," cited a perfect storm of economic hard times, the election of a black president, the promise of social change, and the return of Iraq and Afghanistan war veterans susceptible to the recruitment of white-power militias, as grounds for the alert. It was eloquently referred to as a "piece of crap report" by the likes of this piece of crap blogger, and DHS Secretary Janet Napolitano was forced to issue an apologia of sorts—despite the fact that the study was started during the previous administration.
That Roeder and von Brunn may have been lone wolves does not absolve others in the ideological groups to which they belong from culpability. Anti-abortion organizations with which Roeder is affiliated are indeed responsible. Operation Rescue—whose founder, Randall Terry, claimed that the anti-abortion movement was not responsible for Tiller's murder and then in the same breath proclaimed that the doctor "reaped what he sowed"—claims that Roeder has never been a member, contributor, or volunteer for their organization. But convicted terrorist and current Operation Rescue senior policy advisor Cheryl Sullenger has admitted to having multiple phone conversations with Roeder about Dr. Tiller. According to Rachel Maddow, who has admirably refused to let the story die while most mainstream news outlets have, Operation Rescue kept tabs on Tiller both on its website and on Sullenger's Twitter account. And as is evidently the practice of many anti-abortion groups, the organization posted the addresses for both Tiller's private home and church on its website. His church. What other purpose would it serve to post that information other than to furnish activists and extremists—that is, would-be assassins—with the necessary information to commit their crimes?
And crimes are exactly what these people are committing. In a piece for Air America, "Dr. George Tiller Didn't Have to Die," Amy Goodman detailed Roeder's offenses, including gluing shut the doors of a nearby clinic twice during the week leading up to Tiller's death, and suggested that simple law enforcement could have prevented the gruesome murder. Both Goodman and Maddow have called attention to the federal Freedom of Access to Clinic Entrances Act (FACE), which makes blocking or damaging an abortion clinic's entrance a federal crime. FACE went largely unenforced under George W. Bush and clearly remains ineffective today.
Last night, Michigan representative Mike Rogers told Chris Matthews that crimes by fringe extremists like Roeder and von Brunn have "no connection to mainstream politics." But the rhetoric that propels, emboldens, and even creates these monsters comes directly from the mouths of the Republican establishment. Bill O'Reilly made repeated reference to "Tiller the Baby Killer" on his TV show, claiming that the doctor "execut[ed] babies about to be born," and compared his practice to the slaughter of the Jews in Nazi Germany. Von Brunn believes that Barack Obama isn't an American citizen, that—according to his own website—the president was "sent" to the United States to further the "Jew/Negro" agenda. In February, Alabama Senator Richard Shelby questioned Obama's citizenship, telling a local resident "I haven't seen any birth certificate. You have to be born in America to be president." And as recently as this week, the unofficial "Voice of the GOP," Rush Limbaugh, declared that the only thing Obama has in common with God is that "neither of them has a birth certificate."
This kind of incendiary race baiting and hate speech might be good entertainment, but it makes for risky politics. And it puts human lives at risk. Those on the left have been gleeful that the GOP is drumming itself out of the mainstream, but the right has been incessantly drumming a dangerously bigoted beat for months, propagating the kind of myths, lies, and conspiracy theories on which those on the outer fringes feed, breed, and kill.
PJ Harvey and John Parish: The Beacon Theatre, NYC - June 9, 2009
By: Ed Gonzalez On: 06/11/2009 18:43:05 In: Concerts Comments: 0




Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009: The Reckoning: The Battle for the International Criminal Court
By: Lauren Wissot On: 06/11/2009 15:22:35 In: Festivals Comments: 0

"Without justice, people have no respect for each another," one victim of the atrocities in the Congo offers in Pamela Yates's The Reckoning: The Battle for the International Criminal Court. "If this is left unpunished, it will happen again," he adds. Opening the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival with a whimper rather than a bang (as did last year's underwhelming cinematic salvo), Yates's film follows ICC prosecutor Luis Moreno-Ocampo and his dedicated deputies as they seek to bring to trial the worst of the worst war criminals of our time. Unfortunately, the doc is no fascinatingly addictive character study a la Sin City Law writ large, but rather a clinical procedural better suited to classroom use than for theatrical release.
The problem with a dry, straightforward examination of the ICC, established in 2002, is that its daily workings, like that of any bureaucratic body, move at a snail's pace. Sure, traveling to Uganda to investigate the Lord's Resistance Army (one of the ICC's first cases), then to the Congo, Colombia, and finally Darfur, gives the film a global context, but simply talking to victims in those countries to gather evidence is not as visceral an experience as actually witnessing those crimes through a photojournalist's lens. A picture is worth a thousand words and Reckoning has more substantive words than compelling images. And this lack of artistry in the filmmaking is actually hurting Yates's cause. It's hard to see how many would be driven to log onto her "IJCentral social network for global justice," a link for which is given at the end of the film, merely by watching overworked prosecutors watch atrocity footage on computers at their sleek, modern desks. The effect is less disturbing than distancing.
As is the numerous scenes of those justice seekers sitting around tables pouring over the cases. Shots of monolithic government buildings seen while a description is given of the involvement of Colombia's top officials in the paramilitaries are uninventive. A scene of soldiers standing around (as the word "Paramilitary" superfluously appears onscreen) is as ho-hum as the oft-repeated historical footage of the Nuremberg Tribunal and of Argentina's trial of its Junta. Rather than grab us by the throats and hearts, Yates's unemotional doc has the effect of lulling us into complacency. Even the sad string score and soothing sound of the smooth narration—seemingly taken from a textbook, with lines like "This court would be shaped by the office of the prosecutor" spoken as if the narrator were addressing a middle school class—do nothing to make us want to learn more about this critical institution that faces as much apathy and antagonism from the global community as it does from the international baddies. If the best the director can do to represent the ICC is to cut from press conference speeches to boardroom meetings (between the ICC and NGOs, between the ICC and the communities seeking justice, between the ICC and the UN), it's doubtful the film will tilt the snubbing superpowers of Russia, China, and the United States into joining. Reckoning renders this crucial judiciary of last resort about as inspiring as a conference call.
[The Reckoning: The Battle for the International Criminal Court premieres June 12 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]

"Without justice, people have no respect for each another," one victim of the atrocities in the Congo offers in Pamela Yates's The Reckoning: The Battle for the International Criminal Court. "If this is left unpunished, it will happen again," he adds. Opening the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival with a whimper rather than a bang (as did last year's underwhelming cinematic salvo), Yates's film follows ICC prosecutor Luis Moreno-Ocampo and his dedicated deputies as they seek to bring to trial the worst of the worst war criminals of our time. Unfortunately, the doc is no fascinatingly addictive character study a la Sin City Law writ large, but rather a clinical procedural better suited to classroom use than for theatrical release.
The problem with a dry, straightforward examination of the ICC, established in 2002, is that its daily workings, like that of any bureaucratic body, move at a snail's pace. Sure, traveling to Uganda to investigate the Lord's Resistance Army (one of the ICC's first cases), then to the Congo, Colombia, and finally Darfur, gives the film a global context, but simply talking to victims in those countries to gather evidence is not as visceral an experience as actually witnessing those crimes through a photojournalist's lens. A picture is worth a thousand words and Reckoning has more substantive words than compelling images. And this lack of artistry in the filmmaking is actually hurting Yates's cause. It's hard to see how many would be driven to log onto her "IJCentral social network for global justice," a link for which is given at the end of the film, merely by watching overworked prosecutors watch atrocity footage on computers at their sleek, modern desks. The effect is less disturbing than distancing.
As is the numerous scenes of those justice seekers sitting around tables pouring over the cases. Shots of monolithic government buildings seen while a description is given of the involvement of Colombia's top officials in the paramilitaries are uninventive. A scene of soldiers standing around (as the word "Paramilitary" superfluously appears onscreen) is as ho-hum as the oft-repeated historical footage of the Nuremberg Tribunal and of Argentina's trial of its Junta. Rather than grab us by the throats and hearts, Yates's unemotional doc has the effect of lulling us into complacency. Even the sad string score and soothing sound of the smooth narration—seemingly taken from a textbook, with lines like "This court would be shaped by the office of the prosecutor" spoken as if the narrator were addressing a middle school class—do nothing to make us want to learn more about this critical institution that faces as much apathy and antagonism from the global community as it does from the international baddies. If the best the director can do to represent the ICC is to cut from press conference speeches to boardroom meetings (between the ICC and NGOs, between the ICC and the communities seeking justice, between the ICC and the UN), it's doubtful the film will tilt the snubbing superpowers of Russia, China, and the United States into joining. Reckoning renders this crucial judiciary of last resort about as inspiring as a conference call.
[The Reckoning: The Battle for the International Criminal Court premieres June 12 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center as part of the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2009. Click here for screening information.]
"American" Excess
By: Sal Cinquemani On: 05/21/2009 13:03:29 In: Television Comments: 2

Last night's American Idol finale was an exercise in excess, with award-show posturing complete with faux awards presented by host Ryan Seacrest and superstar guest performances, including Fergie—who awkwardly warbled through her hit "Big Girls Don't Cry" before being joined by her fellow Black Eyed Peas for a performance of their latest single, "Boom Boom Pow," a song that does the exact opposite of epitomizing a singing competition—and a seemingly dazed and confused Rod Stewart. The only thing missing was a dry-ice-and-fire-filled group performance of Queen's "We Are the Champions." Oh, wait, there it is.
I stopped paying attention to the conveyor belt of alternately mediocre-but-smartly-packaged and quirky-but-completely-unmarketable talent that is Idol around the time that viewers gifted themselves with Taylor Hicks, but it's clear the show is close to buckling under the weight of its over-bloated surfeit. In many ways, the finale was perfectly married to the season's purported frontrunner, 27-year-old neo-glam rocker Adam Lambert—he of the man-polish, eyeliner, jet-black emo hairdo, and heavy-metal shriek. Lambert was joined on stage at one point by Kiss for an over-the-top spectacle of a duet that involved, yes, more dry ice and fire.
So it was poetic, perhaps even cosmically auto-corrective, when "dark horse" Kris Allen—he of the unthreatening, boy-next-door good looks and multi-instrumental skills—upset Lambert for the win. Allen's Idol journey ended just as it began, with an endearing modesty and accessibility (even his reaction to winning was restrained, a striking contrast to Lambert's theatrical bombast) and an understated performance style that's focused on the music itself. And yet he held his own alongside country superstar Keith Urban during the finale, displaying a down-home authenticity that will likely be a hell of a lot more bankable in the real world than Lambert's melodramatic, sexually ambiguous (at least to the tween girls who voted for him) glam show.
While there are some who are quick to point to the media's apparently "coded" characterizations of Lambert to explain Allen's "surprise" win (am I not allowed to use the word "theatrical" without fear of being labeled a homophobe?), 12-year-old girls are unlikely to be swayed by a bunch of bloggers…or Simon Cowell. If last night's finale is any indication, the producers of Idol had been grooming the admittedly talented Lambert for the win, but America clearly had other ideas. Maybe now the show will take a cue and tone down the, uh, theatrics and get back to basics.

Last night's American Idol finale was an exercise in excess, with award-show posturing complete with faux awards presented by host Ryan Seacrest and superstar guest performances, including Fergie—who awkwardly warbled through her hit "Big Girls Don't Cry" before being joined by her fellow Black Eyed Peas for a performance of their latest single, "Boom Boom Pow," a song that does the exact opposite of epitomizing a singing competition—and a seemingly dazed and confused Rod Stewart. The only thing missing was a dry-ice-and-fire-filled group performance of Queen's "We Are the Champions." Oh, wait, there it is.
I stopped paying attention to the conveyor belt of alternately mediocre-but-smartly-packaged and quirky-but-completely-unmarketable talent that is Idol around the time that viewers gifted themselves with Taylor Hicks, but it's clear the show is close to buckling under the weight of its over-bloated surfeit. In many ways, the finale was perfectly married to the season's purported frontrunner, 27-year-old neo-glam rocker Adam Lambert—he of the man-polish, eyeliner, jet-black emo hairdo, and heavy-metal shriek. Lambert was joined on stage at one point by Kiss for an over-the-top spectacle of a duet that involved, yes, more dry ice and fire.
So it was poetic, perhaps even cosmically auto-corrective, when "dark horse" Kris Allen—he of the unthreatening, boy-next-door good looks and multi-instrumental skills—upset Lambert for the win. Allen's Idol journey ended just as it began, with an endearing modesty and accessibility (even his reaction to winning was restrained, a striking contrast to Lambert's theatrical bombast) and an understated performance style that's focused on the music itself. And yet he held his own alongside country superstar Keith Urban during the finale, displaying a down-home authenticity that will likely be a hell of a lot more bankable in the real world than Lambert's melodramatic, sexually ambiguous (at least to the tween girls who voted for him) glam show.
While there are some who are quick to point to the media's apparently "coded" characterizations of Lambert to explain Allen's "surprise" win (am I not allowed to use the word "theatrical" without fear of being labeled a homophobe?), 12-year-old girls are unlikely to be swayed by a bunch of bloggers…or Simon Cowell. If last night's finale is any indication, the producers of Idol had been grooming the admittedly talented Lambert for the win, but America clearly had other ideas. Maybe now the show will take a cue and tone down the, uh, theatrics and get back to basics.
Have Pelosi's Chickens Come Home to Roost?
By: Sal Cinquemani On: 05/18/2009 21:08:19 In: Politics Comments: 0

Rush Limbaugh is calling for House Speaker Nancy Pelosi's resignation. On his radio show last week, the right-wing lightning rod babbled something about glass ceilings and equality—the kind of pseudo-progressive logic conservatives like to employ when attempting to disguise their utter contempt for a minority or opposition group (in this case, it's both). In other words, if Pelosi truly wants to prove she's worthy of a man's job, then she ought to act like a man—you know, like Richard Nixon—and resign. It's enough to make me rush to the speaker's defense. But I refuse to take the bait, and I suspect few others will either.
The right has been waiting to take Pelosi down since the Democrats took control of the House in 2006. The Republican Party was quick to pounce on the Speaker's allegation Friday that she was misled by the CIA on the issue of torture, with House Minority Leader John Boehner admonishing his counterpart for questioning the CIA, telling CNN's John King that we ought to instead pat intelligence agents on the back for a "job well done," once again twisting a Democrat's criticism of Bush administration officials into a slandering of the "troops." Not to be outdone, on Meet the Press RNC Chairman Michael Steele attempted to conflate Pelosi's situation with that of the president: "The question for me is does the president support Nancy Pelosi's version of what happened or the CIA director's version of what happened?"
But Pelosi's downfall would just be an added bonus for them. Republicans are betting that Pelosi's—and thereby other Democrats in Congress's—apparent complicity in the Bush administration's torture program will cause Dems to further shy away from pushing for an inquiry into those crimes. At the very least, they want the attention deflected from what the editorial page of The Wall Street Journal today called "a spectacle of demagogic accusation and blame." But the right's gotcha strategy—calling Pelosi out on her apparent hypocrisy—is likely to backfire, the most obvious consequence of this finger-pointing being an even more fervent call by the public for a thorough investigation into who knew what and when.
Republican partisans like Limbaugh continue to make the erroneous assumption that Democrats think like them. Those who voiced outrage over the Bush administration's policies didn't do so because George W. Bush was a Republican, or even because of the nepotism or hanging chad that led him to power. The majority of Americans fundamentally disagree with those policies, and in fact, believe them to be violations of domestic and international law. The biggest miscalculation Republicans have made is that those in the Democratic Party who seek justice and accountability on the issue of torture will blindly defend Pelosi, and by extension the criminal policies for which they're seeking answers.
If Pelosi's claims that the CIA misled Congress on the issue of torture are false, then perhaps Limbaugh is right that she should step down. Simply declassifying the notes from the CIA briefing in question will provide the answer. The larger questions, however, were posed by none other than Karl Rove in the WSJ last week. "If Mrs. Pelosi considers the enhanced interrogation techniques to be torture, didn't she have a responsibility to complain at the time, introduce legislation to end the practices, or attempt to deny funding for the CIA's use of them?" he asked with all of the ersatz incredulity of a trial lawyer. "If she knew what was going on and did nothing, does that make her an accessory to a crime of torture, as many Democrats are calling enhanced interrogation?" Actually, most Democrats are calling it what it is: torture. More importantly, the answer to both of Rove's questions is, unequivocally, YES.
If Pelosi was aware of the program, the fact that she didn't publicly protest doesn't make the chief architects of that program, nor the attorneys who were hired to justify the legality of the program, nor the CIA operatives who carried out the program, nor any other official—Republican or Democrat—who knew about the program, but who didn't attempt to stop it, any less accountable. They should all be investigated for their collusive involvement, tacit or otherwise, in one of the most embarrassing, dangerous, and irresponsible programs in our nation's history. In other words, I say throw Pelosi to the wolves if it means getting to the truth.
Even if Attorney General Eric Holder appoints a special prosecutor to investigate torture, high-level prosecutions are unlikely, so an independent congressional council—i.e. a "truth commission"—would at least shine a light into the dark corners of the Bush administration and Congress, and provide an official record that the U.S. attempted to enforce the law and rectify wrongs. That's exactly the "spectacle" to which the WSJ referred and which the right fears; to them, the pursuit of truth and justice on the issue of torture is a "tempest," with the author of the op-ed describing such a commission as "hearings intended to be little more than bear-baitings of the defeated Bush Administration." Bush was shamed, discredited, and maligned, but defeated? This same piece praises Barack Obama for his "difficult decisions" on reinstating Bush's military tribunals and releasing photos of tortured detainees, an indication that many of the previous administration's policies are continuing.
By colluding with the administration on—or simply turning a blind eye to—a torture program that defied the country's international obligations, many elected officials were attempting to preserve their careers at a time when voicing dissent might have resulted in dire political consequences. During her circus-like press conference on Friday, Pelosi repeatedly and clearly enunciated the same point: that the only way she believed it was possible to change course on issues like terrorism and torture was to focus on regaining congressional majorities and electing a Democratic president—which, she reminded us, she helped achieve. But the consequences of Pelosi's failure to completely drain the swamp, which I detailed in these very pages last summer, are becoming increasingly evident. As Rove said, "Mrs. Pelosi is hip-deep in dangerous waters, and they are rapidly rising."

Rush Limbaugh is calling for House Speaker Nancy Pelosi's resignation. On his radio show last week, the right-wing lightning rod babbled something about glass ceilings and equality—the kind of pseudo-progressive logic conservatives like to employ when attempting to disguise their utter contempt for a minority or opposition group (in this case, it's both). In other words, if Pelosi truly wants to prove she's worthy of a man's job, then she ought to act like a man—you know, like Richard Nixon—and resign. It's enough to make me rush to the speaker's defense. But I refuse to take the bait, and I suspect few others will either.
The right has been waiting to take Pelosi down since the Democrats took control of the House in 2006. The Republican Party was quick to pounce on the Speaker's allegation Friday that she was misled by the CIA on the issue of torture, with House Minority Leader John Boehner admonishing his counterpart for questioning the CIA, telling CNN's John King that we ought to instead pat intelligence agents on the back for a "job well done," once again twisting a Democrat's criticism of Bush administration officials into a slandering of the "troops." Not to be outdone, on Meet the Press RNC Chairman Michael Steele attempted to conflate Pelosi's situation with that of the president: "The question for me is does the president support Nancy Pelosi's version of what happened or the CIA director's version of what happened?"
But Pelosi's downfall would just be an added bonus for them. Republicans are betting that Pelosi's—and thereby other Democrats in Congress's—apparent complicity in the Bush administration's torture program will cause Dems to further shy away from pushing for an inquiry into those crimes. At the very least, they want the attention deflected from what the editorial page of The Wall Street Journal today called "a spectacle of demagogic accusation and blame." But the right's gotcha strategy—calling Pelosi out on her apparent hypocrisy—is likely to backfire, the most obvious consequence of this finger-pointing being an even more fervent call by the public for a thorough investigation into who knew what and when.
Republican partisans like Limbaugh continue to make the erroneous assumption that Democrats think like them. Those who voiced outrage over the Bush administration's policies didn't do so because George W. Bush was a Republican, or even because of the nepotism or hanging chad that led him to power. The majority of Americans fundamentally disagree with those policies, and in fact, believe them to be violations of domestic and international law. The biggest miscalculation Republicans have made is that those in the Democratic Party who seek justice and accountability on the issue of torture will blindly defend Pelosi, and by extension the criminal policies for which they're seeking answers.
If Pelosi's claims that the CIA misled Congress on the issue of torture are false, then perhaps Limbaugh is right that she should step down. Simply declassifying the notes from the CIA briefing in question will provide the answer. The larger questions, however, were posed by none other than Karl Rove in the WSJ last week. "If Mrs. Pelosi considers the enhanced interrogation techniques to be torture, didn't she have a responsibility to complain at the time, introduce legislation to end the practices, or attempt to deny funding for the CIA's use of them?" he asked with all of the ersatz incredulity of a trial lawyer. "If she knew what was going on and did nothing, does that make her an accessory to a crime of torture, as many Democrats are calling enhanced interrogation?" Actually, most Democrats are calling it what it is: torture. More importantly, the answer to both of Rove's questions is, unequivocally, YES.
If Pelosi was aware of the program, the fact that she didn't publicly protest doesn't make the chief architects of that program, nor the attorneys who were hired to justify the legality of the program, nor the CIA operatives who carried out the program, nor any other official—Republican or Democrat—who knew about the program, but who didn't attempt to stop it, any less accountable. They should all be investigated for their collusive involvement, tacit or otherwise, in one of the most embarrassing, dangerous, and irresponsible programs in our nation's history. In other words, I say throw Pelosi to the wolves if it means getting to the truth.
Even if Attorney General Eric Holder appoints a special prosecutor to investigate torture, high-level prosecutions are unlikely, so an independent congressional council—i.e. a "truth commission"—would at least shine a light into the dark corners of the Bush administration and Congress, and provide an official record that the U.S. attempted to enforce the law and rectify wrongs. That's exactly the "spectacle" to which the WSJ referred and which the right fears; to them, the pursuit of truth and justice on the issue of torture is a "tempest," with the author of the op-ed describing such a commission as "hearings intended to be little more than bear-baitings of the defeated Bush Administration." Bush was shamed, discredited, and maligned, but defeated? This same piece praises Barack Obama for his "difficult decisions" on reinstating Bush's military tribunals and releasing photos of tortured detainees, an indication that many of the previous administration's policies are continuing.
By colluding with the administration on—or simply turning a blind eye to—a torture program that defied the country's international obligations, many elected officials were attempting to preserve their careers at a time when voicing dissent might have resulted in dire political consequences. During her circus-like press conference on Friday, Pelosi repeatedly and clearly enunciated the same point: that the only way she believed it was possible to change course on issues like terrorism and torture was to focus on regaining congressional majorities and electing a Democratic president—which, she reminded us, she helped achieve. But the consequences of Pelosi's failure to completely drain the swamp, which I detailed in these very pages last summer, are becoming increasingly evident. As Rove said, "Mrs. Pelosi is hip-deep in dangerous waters, and they are rapidly rising."
Breakfast of Progressives: Cheerios and Breast Milk
By: Sal Cinquemani On: 05/14/2009 19:31:00 In: Politics Comments: 0

In 2007, the Department of Health and Human Services toned down an advertising campaign informing the public of the potential health risks of not breastfeeding babies. Naturally, the formula industry had a cow, and they lobbied hard against the ads and won. The campaign was watered down so as to have little impact on the breastfeeding rate in the United States, which, at 30%, lags behind Europe. The agency also decided not to promote a study which found that breastfeeding is, according to The Washington Post, "associated with fewer ear and gastrointestinal infections, as well as lower rates of diabetes, leukemia, obesity, asthma and sudden infant death syndrome." (If this seems like an odd issue for a young, single male to be championing, the HHS has reported that children who aren't breastfed are 40% more likely to suffer from Type 1 diabetes, a disease that afflicts both of my sisters.)
It helped, of course, that formula companies are part of the pharmaceutical industry, and that the administration in office at the time was the most amiable to Big Pharma in history—an administration that, it should be noted, took little to no measures to assist new mothers in its eight-year tenure. The Post described the formula industry's lobbying efforts as "a full-court press to reach top political appointees at HHS, using influential former government officials, now working for the industry, to act as go-betweens," including former chairman of the Republican National Committee Joseph A. Levitt. Political interference into public health and safety pales in comparison to the Bush administration's other known crimes, but the larger issue here sheds light on the right's ideological opposition to the new administration's desire to allow government to function as it was intended.
Right-wing loons like Michelle Malkin have been up in arms this week over the Food and Drug Administration's concerns over Cheerios's claims that it can lower cholesterol by four percent in six weeks, and that it can help fight against cancer. It's bad enough when foods claim to help reduce cholesterol because, as it usually states in tiny print, "a diet low in saturated fat and cholesterol may reduce the risk of heart disease" (yes, eating healthy foods is healthy), but there's nothing special about Cheerios. It's like the sidewalk taking credit for the increased health of avid walkers. General Mills might as well encourage parents to serve Cheerios with breast milk and then say the cereal provides children with vital immune system benefits.
The FDA is doing exactly what it was designed to do: protect consumers from misleading or unsubstantiated claims—something David Theroux of The Independent Institute calls one of Obama's "'progressive' (i.e., authoritarian) absurdities." In response to all the media coverage, General Mills has issued a statement saying that their claim that Cheerios can lower cholesterol by a certain percentage in a fixed period of time has been "featured on the box for more than two years," that "the science is not in question," and that the FDA is merely interested in how the information is presented. Critics of the FDA's move think it's silly, but how information is presented is key to good messaging—something the right has clearly forgotten.

In 2007, the Department of Health and Human Services toned down an advertising campaign informing the public of the potential health risks of not breastfeeding babies. Naturally, the formula industry had a cow, and they lobbied hard against the ads and won. The campaign was watered down so as to have little impact on the breastfeeding rate in the United States, which, at 30%, lags behind Europe. The agency also decided not to promote a study which found that breastfeeding is, according to The Washington Post, "associated with fewer ear and gastrointestinal infections, as well as lower rates of diabetes, leukemia, obesity, asthma and sudden infant death syndrome." (If this seems like an odd issue for a young, single male to be championing, the HHS has reported that children who aren't breastfed are 40% more likely to suffer from Type 1 diabetes, a disease that afflicts both of my sisters.)
It helped, of course, that formula companies are part of the pharmaceutical industry, and that the administration in office at the time was the most amiable to Big Pharma in history—an administration that, it should be noted, took little to no measures to assist new mothers in its eight-year tenure. The Post described the formula industry's lobbying efforts as "a full-court press to reach top political appointees at HHS, using influential former government officials, now working for the industry, to act as go-betweens," including former chairman of the Republican National Committee Joseph A. Levitt. Political interference into public health and safety pales in comparison to the Bush administration's other known crimes, but the larger issue here sheds light on the right's ideological opposition to the new administration's desire to allow government to function as it was intended.
Right-wing loons like Michelle Malkin have been up in arms this week over the Food and Drug Administration's concerns over Cheerios's claims that it can lower cholesterol by four percent in six weeks, and that it can help fight against cancer. It's bad enough when foods claim to help reduce cholesterol because, as it usually states in tiny print, "a diet low in saturated fat and cholesterol may reduce the risk of heart disease" (yes, eating healthy foods is healthy), but there's nothing special about Cheerios. It's like the sidewalk taking credit for the increased health of avid walkers. General Mills might as well encourage parents to serve Cheerios with breast milk and then say the cereal provides children with vital immune system benefits.
The FDA is doing exactly what it was designed to do: protect consumers from misleading or unsubstantiated claims—something David Theroux of The Independent Institute calls one of Obama's "'progressive' (i.e., authoritarian) absurdities." In response to all the media coverage, General Mills has issued a statement saying that their claim that Cheerios can lower cholesterol by a certain percentage in a fixed period of time has been "featured on the box for more than two years," that "the science is not in question," and that the FDA is merely interested in how the information is presented. Critics of the FDA's move think it's silly, but how information is presented is key to good messaging—something the right has clearly forgotten.
Tribeca Film Festival: Don McKay
By: Adam Keleman On: 05/03/2009 17:09:49 In: Festivals Comments: 0

Clearly a quiet and lonely man, Don McKay (Thomas Haden Church) sluggishly scrubs the paint off a high school art class's floor, with a loser shrug affixed to his face. He's employed in janitorial services, and this being a not-too-stirring existence, he jumps at the chance to go back to his hometown after receiving a letter from a cancer-stricken first love, Sonny (Elisabeth Shue), who beckons his return. Upon arriving at her childhood home, Don is greeted by a suspiciously tidy, anal-retentive maid, Marie (Melissa Leo), who has been Sonny's caretaker since the cancer spread. When Don finally sees Sonny, still marvelously angelic, his eyes widen in glee as fond memories are recalled, but Don McKay is no glorious reunion story, as this town and girl he once knew belie a much deeper, far-reaching truth than the artificial welcoming party may let on.
Writer-director Jake Goldberger has lassoed a great cast to ham it up in this comical homage to Billy Wilder's classic noirs Double Indemnity and Sunset Boulevard. Church imbues his steamrolled schlub, so visibly defeated by past tragedy, with everyman wisdom, and he and Shue display great chemistry: As her femme-fatale acrobatics dance all over Church in the culminating scene that reveals her character's true nature, there's a slight glimpse at what could have been if this charade continued—that is, if she hadn't threatened to kill him. In a welcomed return to leading-role status, Shue exhibits devilish camp as a sickly gimp Sonny, and then switching to manipulative temptress when the tables are turned, while Leo gives another golden, meticulous performance as the double-dealer Marie, even if a noticeable departure from her Oscar-nominated, more serious work in Frozen River. The world Goldberger creates can be contrived at times, but it's also frenetically enthralling, and as such the few mangled twists are easily overlooked. And though it may wear its references on its sleeves, as sheer, thrilling entertainment, Don McKay deceives like the best of them.
Don McKay @ the Tribeca Film Festival

Clearly a quiet and lonely man, Don McKay (Thomas Haden Church) sluggishly scrubs the paint off a high school art class's floor, with a loser shrug affixed to his face. He's employed in janitorial services, and this being a not-too-stirring existence, he jumps at the chance to go back to his hometown after receiving a letter from a cancer-stricken first love, Sonny (Elisabeth Shue), who beckons his return. Upon arriving at her childhood home, Don is greeted by a suspiciously tidy, anal-retentive maid, Marie (Melissa Leo), who has been Sonny's caretaker since the cancer spread. When Don finally sees Sonny, still marvelously angelic, his eyes widen in glee as fond memories are recalled, but Don McKay is no glorious reunion story, as this town and girl he once knew belie a much deeper, far-reaching truth than the artificial welcoming party may let on.
Writer-director Jake Goldberger has lassoed a great cast to ham it up in this comical homage to Billy Wilder's classic noirs Double Indemnity and Sunset Boulevard. Church imbues his steamrolled schlub, so visibly defeated by past tragedy, with everyman wisdom, and he and Shue display great chemistry: As her femme-fatale acrobatics dance all over Church in the culminating scene that reveals her character's true nature, there's a slight glimpse at what could have been if this charade continued—that is, if she hadn't threatened to kill him. In a welcomed return to leading-role status, Shue exhibits devilish camp as a sickly gimp Sonny, and then switching to manipulative temptress when the tables are turned, while Leo gives another golden, meticulous performance as the double-dealer Marie, even if a noticeable departure from her Oscar-nominated, more serious work in Frozen River. The world Goldberger creates can be contrived at times, but it's also frenetically enthralling, and as such the few mangled twists are easily overlooked. And though it may wear its references on its sleeves, as sheer, thrilling entertainment, Don McKay deceives like the best of them.
Don McKay @ the Tribeca Film Festival
Tribeca Film Festival: Shadow Billionaire
By: Adam Keleman On: 05/02/2009 14:29:07 In: Festivals Comments: 0

As one of the three founders of the worldwide mailing service DHL (he was the "H"), Larry Hillblom, labeled eccentrically brilliant from an early age, had a knack for business and the brain for innovation. He also had a peculiar, perverse attraction to adolescent, native girls from Saipan and the Philippines. First-time director Alexis Manya Spraic deftly explores both Hillblom's entrepreneurial genius and the lurid underbelly of his mischievous weekend trips to certain Filipino night clubs in her debut feature documentary Shadow Billionaire.
Admired and respected by many, Hillblom became a millionaire by his late 20s, finding a niche in the package-delivery industry as one of the first to exploit an early model of globalism with his international parcel service DHL Express. Not one to hold his eggs in one basket, Hillblom began investing his millions, eventually gaining billionaire status. But as his money grew, so did his penchant for adventure and travel overseas, which landed him on the island of Saipan, where Hillblom, in his 40s, settled and expanded his business model to the East and gained the respect of locals. But after a deadly plane crash (his second accident piloting a plane), several Saipan and Filipino women came out of the woodwork, claiming to have birthed heirs to his still-growing fortunes, and as the legal suits piled up, the true nature of Hillblom's sexual activities on Saipan soil and abroad became apparent.
Spraic leaves no stone unturned in her exposé of Hillblom. With her extensive breadth of interview subjects, from Hillblom's old colleagues to his family friends, she documents a vivid tale of deceitful, sexual obsession—and even racial prejudice. Often painted as slumming, sly gold-diggers by the lawyers of Hillblom's estate, the indigenous, poverty-stricken women of Saipan and the Philippines—including some prostitutes—account for "the little guy" in this David-versus-Goliath struggle for the truth. Shadow Billionaire distinguishes itself as a fine example of investigative journalism, both in sprawling, revelatory scope and penetrating consequence, proving the unspoken few may have something to say after all.
Shadow Billionaire @ the Tribeca Film Festival

As one of the three founders of the worldwide mailing service DHL (he was the "H"), Larry Hillblom, labeled eccentrically brilliant from an early age, had a knack for business and the brain for innovation. He also had a peculiar, perverse attraction to adolescent, native girls from Saipan and the Philippines. First-time director Alexis Manya Spraic deftly explores both Hillblom's entrepreneurial genius and the lurid underbelly of his mischievous weekend trips to certain Filipino night clubs in her debut feature documentary Shadow Billionaire.
Admired and respected by many, Hillblom became a millionaire by his late 20s, finding a niche in the package-delivery industry as one of the first to exploit an early model of globalism with his international parcel service DHL Express. Not one to hold his eggs in one basket, Hillblom began investing his millions, eventually gaining billionaire status. But as his money grew, so did his penchant for adventure and travel overseas, which landed him on the island of Saipan, where Hillblom, in his 40s, settled and expanded his business model to the East and gained the respect of locals. But after a deadly plane crash (his second accident piloting a plane), several Saipan and Filipino women came out of the woodwork, claiming to have birthed heirs to his still-growing fortunes, and as the legal suits piled up, the true nature of Hillblom's sexual activities on Saipan soil and abroad became apparent.
Spraic leaves no stone unturned in her exposé of Hillblom. With her extensive breadth of interview subjects, from Hillblom's old colleagues to his family friends, she documents a vivid tale of deceitful, sexual obsession—and even racial prejudice. Often painted as slumming, sly gold-diggers by the lawyers of Hillblom's estate, the indigenous, poverty-stricken women of Saipan and the Philippines—including some prostitutes—account for "the little guy" in this David-versus-Goliath struggle for the truth. Shadow Billionaire distinguishes itself as a fine example of investigative journalism, both in sprawling, revelatory scope and penetrating consequence, proving the unspoken few may have something to say after all.
Shadow Billionaire @ the Tribeca Film Festival
Tribeca Film Festival: Love the Beast
By: Nick Schager On: 05/01/2009 21:23:04 In: Festivals Comments: 1

You never forget your first love, which in the case of Eric Bana was a 1974 Ford XB Falcon Couple nicknamed "the Beast." In the auto-romantic Love the Beast, Bana documents his lifelong amour for his ride, a model which first entranced him while watching Australia's famed Bathurst race in 1977, and again two years later by its appearance in Mad Max. As a teen, Bana convinced his father to buy him one, instigating an affair that soon also ensnared his mates as well, as the actor recounts how working on the car became their collective adolescent pastime and turned his parents' garage into their de facto clubhouse. Three decades and three overhauls later, Bana and his beloved auto enter Tasmania's renowned five-day off-track Targa rally (which he had completed years prior), though Beast isn't after the drama of Bana's race performance, but, instead, the way in which his participation proves a further extension of his deep affinity for the car.
Through narration, interviews, and cinematographic fawning over their chassis, classic American cars are celebrated for their imperfect character, which makes them seem vibrantly alive. Similarly, the act of working under the hood is depicted as an act of spiritual bonding that for Bana feels akin to a committed relationship—unlike aficionado Jay Leno, who adores his cars while they're being restored only to leave them in his warehouse so he can move on to the next project. Shots from the tires, hood, bumper, and cab of the speeding Falcon Coupe stirringly complement Bana's thoughts about the thrill and freedom that he experiences behind the wheel, and address his passion far more evocatively than his conversations with Dr. Phil, whose obvious observations drive the sentimental proceedings to the brink of squishiness. Still, archival photos and clips of a teenage Bana with the Beast, as well as the film's portrait of the car's role in maintaining his connection to childhood friends (who continually reunite to work on the vehicle) and his father (who boasts his own half-century-long affair with a T-Bird) affectionately express the potent allure that classic American muscle cars had, and continue to have, on the male imagination and heart.
Love the Beast @ the Tribeca Film Festival

You never forget your first love, which in the case of Eric Bana was a 1974 Ford XB Falcon Couple nicknamed "the Beast." In the auto-romantic Love the Beast, Bana documents his lifelong amour for his ride, a model which first entranced him while watching Australia's famed Bathurst race in 1977, and again two years later by its appearance in Mad Max. As a teen, Bana convinced his father to buy him one, instigating an affair that soon also ensnared his mates as well, as the actor recounts how working on the car became their collective adolescent pastime and turned his parents' garage into their de facto clubhouse. Three decades and three overhauls later, Bana and his beloved auto enter Tasmania's renowned five-day off-track Targa rally (which he had completed years prior), though Beast isn't after the drama of Bana's race performance, but, instead, the way in which his participation proves a further extension of his deep affinity for the car.
Through narration, interviews, and cinematographic fawning over their chassis, classic American cars are celebrated for their imperfect character, which makes them seem vibrantly alive. Similarly, the act of working under the hood is depicted as an act of spiritual bonding that for Bana feels akin to a committed relationship—unlike aficionado Jay Leno, who adores his cars while they're being restored only to leave them in his warehouse so he can move on to the next project. Shots from the tires, hood, bumper, and cab of the speeding Falcon Coupe stirringly complement Bana's thoughts about the thrill and freedom that he experiences behind the wheel, and address his passion far more evocatively than his conversations with Dr. Phil, whose obvious observations drive the sentimental proceedings to the brink of squishiness. Still, archival photos and clips of a teenage Bana with the Beast, as well as the film's portrait of the car's role in maintaining his connection to childhood friends (who continually reunite to work on the vehicle) and his father (who boasts his own half-century-long affair with a T-Bird) affectionately express the potent allure that classic American muscle cars had, and continue to have, on the male imagination and heart.
Love the Beast @ the Tribeca Film Festival
Tribeca Film Festival: The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia
By: Nick Schager On: 05/01/2009 21:18:32 In: Festivals Comments: 0

Even those with a soft spot for The Dancing Outlaw, the 1991 cult PBS documentary about tap-dancing West Virginian Jesco White, will likely have a hard time warming up to The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia, a feature-length portrait of a year in the life of Jesco's regionally notorious clan. The enduring comedy and charm of Dancing Outlaw stems largely from the borderline-surrealism of its deranged mountain-man subject, the son of local dancing legend D. Ray White, and a loon whose boogieing skills, opinions on marriage and madness, and bizarre obsession with Elvis make him seem like a fancifully strange fictional caricature come to real life.
While Jesco also appears in Wild and Wonderful (executive produced by Johnny Knoxville), director Julien Nitzberg expands his purview to include the rest of the hell-raising, live-free-and-die-young family, celebrated by Hank Williams III as "the true rebels of the South" for living an unrepentant existence of partying, crime, and mischief. As far as people-behaving-badly docs go, the disreputable film has its mild pleasures, with the sheer brazenness of the White clan's actions—decried by local public defenders, prosecutors, and sheriffs, and typified by Jesco and burly sister Mamie turning their mother's 85th birthday party into a coke and pot-fueled bash—casting the plot-less proceedings as a breakneck, amusing R-rated Jerry Springer nightmare.
Wild and Wonderful is smitten with the redneck brood, but its nonjudgmental stance leads to a sobering warts-and-all depiction of their rampant "fun," exemplified by husband-slashing Kirk White snorting lines of crushed prescription pills in a hospital room mere moments after putting her newborn daughter to sleep. Kirk's decision to head to rehab after the state confiscates her baby, as well as the story of a younger White awaiting sentencing for repeatedly shooting his uncle in the face and then engaging in an armed standoff with the police, are merely two examples of the dark side to the family's hell-raising lifestyles.
The argument is advanced that their misconduct stems from the coal-mining industry's exploitation of their ancestors, as well as the hazardous profession itself, which is so dangerous that one's mortality is thrown into sharp relief and, in turn, engenders a reckless, devil-may-care attitude. No doubt such analysis holds a bit of water, but it nonetheless falls far short of affording an exculpatory explanation. As a result, it's nearly impossible to feel empathy for, or remain amused by, the Whites—living on the dole thanks to D. Ray's shrewd decision to have them all classified as legally insane—and the destructive, entitled irresponsibility which they proudly pass down to their kids. A mixture of pity and disgust, however, is elicited just fine.
The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia @ the Tribeca Film Festival

Even those with a soft spot for The Dancing Outlaw, the 1991 cult PBS documentary about tap-dancing West Virginian Jesco White, will likely have a hard time warming up to The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia, a feature-length portrait of a year in the life of Jesco's regionally notorious clan. The enduring comedy and charm of Dancing Outlaw stems largely from the borderline-surrealism of its deranged mountain-man subject, the son of local dancing legend D. Ray White, and a loon whose boogieing skills, opinions on marriage and madness, and bizarre obsession with Elvis make him seem like a fancifully strange fictional caricature come to real life.
While Jesco also appears in Wild and Wonderful (executive produced by Johnny Knoxville), director Julien Nitzberg expands his purview to include the rest of the hell-raising, live-free-and-die-young family, celebrated by Hank Williams III as "the true rebels of the South" for living an unrepentant existence of partying, crime, and mischief. As far as people-behaving-badly docs go, the disreputable film has its mild pleasures, with the sheer brazenness of the White clan's actions—decried by local public defenders, prosecutors, and sheriffs, and typified by Jesco and burly sister Mamie turning their mother's 85th birthday party into a coke and pot-fueled bash—casting the plot-less proceedings as a breakneck, amusing R-rated Jerry Springer nightmare.
Wild and Wonderful is smitten with the redneck brood, but its nonjudgmental stance leads to a sobering warts-and-all depiction of their rampant "fun," exemplified by husband-slashing Kirk White snorting lines of crushed prescription pills in a hospital room mere moments after putting her newborn daughter to sleep. Kirk's decision to head to rehab after the state confiscates her baby, as well as the story of a younger White awaiting sentencing for repeatedly shooting his uncle in the face and then engaging in an armed standoff with the police, are merely two examples of the dark side to the family's hell-raising lifestyles.
The argument is advanced that their misconduct stems from the coal-mining industry's exploitation of their ancestors, as well as the hazardous profession itself, which is so dangerous that one's mortality is thrown into sharp relief and, in turn, engenders a reckless, devil-may-care attitude. No doubt such analysis holds a bit of water, but it nonetheless falls far short of affording an exculpatory explanation. As a result, it's nearly impossible to feel empathy for, or remain amused by, the Whites—living on the dole thanks to D. Ray's shrewd decision to have them all classified as legally insane—and the destructive, entitled irresponsibility which they proudly pass down to their kids. A mixture of pity and disgust, however, is elicited just fine.
The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia @ the Tribeca Film Festival
Tribeca Film Festival: Original
By: Bill Weber On: 05/01/2009 19:58:28 In: Festivals Comments: 0

A twee Danish comedy that alternates trite New Age psychological moves with outbursts of cartoonish violence, Original has for a hero Henry (Sverrir Gudnason), a doe-eyed, high-cheekboned man-boy whose middle-class, unexamined life veers into reconstruction mode when he suddenly becomes jobless and single. Mugging sweetly without ever being particularly funny or compelling, he enters upon a Peter Pan identity crisis with preachy self-awareness ("Life should be lived," he waxes in Buelleresque narration). Burdened with an institutionalized, delusional mother (after his father's demise in a grotesquely unfunny hunting accident), he does his best to prop up her fantasy image of him as a successful military officer by shooting faux home videos in IKEA. Determined to spring Mom from the clutches of a callous clinical hypnotist, he's aided by a tracksuited gourmet (David Dencik) who spins a grand scheme of the two of them opening a restaurant in Spain, and a fiercely feminist performance artist (Tuva Novotny) whose heart Henry melts with a seductive swap of cooking tips. If this sounds like writer-directors Alexander Brøndsted and Antonio Tublén have a severe case of the cutes, they do, and while their visuals possess a hint of Aki Kaurismaki's grainy Scandinavian absurdism, their more desperate antic passages more closely resemble wacky beer commercials. Novotny scores with a strip-club act, sneering, "You fuck! You suck!," while costumed as Rosie the Riveter, but her character softens too quickly; Dejan Cukic draws a few laughs as her moronic drug-dealing manager. Alas, Henry's mom-saving crusade is as heavy-handed and lugubrious as Sam Rockwell's in last year's Choke, and then the filmmakers pull an 11th-hour gimmick that compares badly with one from Fight Club. Henry may aspire to be "a brilliant original and not a pale copy," but Original plays like a weak Chuck Palahniuk plot stuffed with coyness.
Original @ the Tribeca Film Festival

A twee Danish comedy that alternates trite New Age psychological moves with outbursts of cartoonish violence, Original has for a hero Henry (Sverrir Gudnason), a doe-eyed, high-cheekboned man-boy whose middle-class, unexamined life veers into reconstruction mode when he suddenly becomes jobless and single. Mugging sweetly without ever being particularly funny or compelling, he enters upon a Peter Pan identity crisis with preachy self-awareness ("Life should be lived," he waxes in Buelleresque narration). Burdened with an institutionalized, delusional mother (after his father's demise in a grotesquely unfunny hunting accident), he does his best to prop up her fantasy image of him as a successful military officer by shooting faux home videos in IKEA. Determined to spring Mom from the clutches of a callous clinical hypnotist, he's aided by a tracksuited gourmet (David Dencik) who spins a grand scheme of the two of them opening a restaurant in Spain, and a fiercely feminist performance artist (Tuva Novotny) whose heart Henry melts with a seductive swap of cooking tips. If this sounds like writer-directors Alexander Brøndsted and Antonio Tublén have a severe case of the cutes, they do, and while their visuals possess a hint of Aki Kaurismaki's grainy Scandinavian absurdism, their more desperate antic passages more closely resemble wacky beer commercials. Novotny scores with a strip-club act, sneering, "You fuck! You suck!," while costumed as Rosie the Riveter, but her character softens too quickly; Dejan Cukic draws a few laughs as her moronic drug-dealing manager. Alas, Henry's mom-saving crusade is as heavy-handed and lugubrious as Sam Rockwell's in last year's Choke, and then the filmmakers pull an 11th-hour gimmick that compares badly with one from Fight Club. Henry may aspire to be "a brilliant original and not a pale copy," but Original plays like a weak Chuck Palahniuk plot stuffed with coyness.
Original @ the Tribeca Film Festival
Tribeca Film Festival: An Englishman in New York
By: Adam Keleman On: 05/01/2009 19:45:10 In: Festivals Comments: 0

In Richard Laxton's An Englishman in New York, Quentin Crisp (John Hurt)—the notable makeup-wearing gay activist who was raised in the brutal, prejudice-filled streets of Sutton, England and brought over, at the tender age of 70, to the slightly more welcoming boroughs of New York City—is filled with generous, perceptive philosophies regarding the nature of human beings and relationships, gay and straight. After the success of the made-for-British-TV movie The Naked Civil Servant, which was based on his memoir, Crisp is commissioned by a small theater in Manhattan's Bowery to perform a one-man show; word-of-mouth spreads about his unfiltered wit and shrewd observations about the gay community and cultural zeitgeist at large, which lands him gigs on late-night TV chat shows via his newly acquired agent (Swoosie Kurtz). His cult-like status grows, but when he calls the impending AIDS epidemic "a fad" in an off-the-cuff moment during one of his performances, he turns a faction of the gay community sour.
Englishman is a studied testament to the splintered state of the gay community: It understands how homosexuals may seem like a collective, parading around and screaming for inclusion, but how they can be oppressive within their very own community. During one fish-out-of-water moment when Quentin and his editor friend, Phillip Steele (Denis O'Hare), visit a gay bar filled with construction workers and buffed-up guys, they haltingly realize these men won't converse with them because the two are not cut from the same muscle-rippling mold. These "clones," as Quentin puts it, willfully draw lines down the center of the homosexual pack, and though he's perplexed by this immediate cruelty from his own clan, Quentin overcomes it, proceeding again through life in a jolly old fashion.
A BAFTA-winner for Naked Civil Servant, in which he played a much younger version of Crisp, Hurt is utterly spellbinding, sinking back into this colorful and iconic persona with rousing form. Laxton smartly frames the film around Hurt's dedicated performance, allowing Crisp to remain the cinematic focus as he was in his own world. This fresh look at the gay culture and its desired goals establishes profound insight into what it means to be a true-to-spirit man these days, no matter if he happens to wear a little lipstick and maybe a scarf or two.
An Englishman in New York @ the Tribeca Film Festival

In Richard Laxton's An Englishman in New York, Quentin Crisp (John Hurt)—the notable makeup-wearing gay activist who was raised in the brutal, prejudice-filled streets of Sutton, England and brought over, at the tender age of 70, to the slightly more welcoming boroughs of New York City—is filled with generous, perceptive philosophies regarding the nature of human beings and relationships, gay and straight. After the success of the made-for-British-TV movie The Naked Civil Servant, which was based on his memoir, Crisp is commissioned by a small theater in Manhattan's Bowery to perform a one-man show; word-of-mouth spreads about his unfiltered wit and shrewd observations about the gay community and cultural zeitgeist at large, which lands him gigs on late-night TV chat shows via his newly acquired agent (Swoosie Kurtz). His cult-like status grows, but when he calls the impending AIDS epidemic "a fad" in an off-the-cuff moment during one of his performances, he turns a faction of the gay community sour.
Englishman is a studied testament to the splintered state of the gay community: It understands how homosexuals may seem like a collective, parading around and screaming for inclusion, but how they can be oppressive within their very own community. During one fish-out-of-water moment when Quentin and his editor friend, Phillip Steele (Denis O'Hare), visit a gay bar filled with construction workers and buffed-up guys, they haltingly realize these men won't converse with them because the two are not cut from the same muscle-rippling mold. These "clones," as Quentin puts it, willfully draw lines down the center of the homosexual pack, and though he's perplexed by this immediate cruelty from his own clan, Quentin overcomes it, proceeding again through life in a jolly old fashion.
A BAFTA-winner for Naked Civil Servant, in which he played a much younger version of Crisp, Hurt is utterly spellbinding, sinking back into this colorful and iconic persona with rousing form. Laxton smartly frames the film around Hurt's dedicated performance, allowing Crisp to remain the cinematic focus as he was in his own world. This fresh look at the gay culture and its desired goals establishes profound insight into what it means to be a true-to-spirit man these days, no matter if he happens to wear a little lipstick and maybe a scarf or two.
An Englishman in New York @ the Tribeca Film Festival
Tribeca Film Festival: The Exploding Girl
By: Bill Weber On: 05/01/2009 14:30:51 In: Festivals Comments: 1

Exasperating for its mundane narrative of youthful non-courtship camouflaged by Manhattan street-video naturalism, The Exploding Girl occasionally suggests mumblecore with less improvisation and heaps of undergrad preciousness in place of snarky irony. Zoe Kazan is Ivy, a Björkish-pigtailed college student home in New York for the summer, where she gives her displaced BFF Al (Mark Rendall), a gangly pothead and enthusiastic biology student, space on the couch. In between visits to her dance-teacher mother's class and largely unanswered phone calls to a neglectful, obviously exit-seeking boyfriend, Ivy encourages a compulsively lingering Al to party through the season without her, and assures her doctor that she's careful about managing her epilepsy, which results in a seizure only when she's "stressed out." Bradley Rust Gray's feature shares some themes with his wife So Yong Kim's winter portrait of a young couple at a crossroads, In Between Days, which he co-wrote and produced, but Exploding Girl is a less forceful variation on the earlier work's patterns, partly because Ivy and Al's passivity seems like a side effect of larger, unstated issues. (Or perhaps such pure fear and clumsiness in fledgling affairs of the heart is most compelling to 20-year-olds.) Ivy's regularly vibrating cell phone, over which she conducts a score of trivial negotiations with Al, marks her primarily as a buzzing girl at the core, but Gray's awkward title metaphor ensures that once Al stops dithering about evolutionary theory and asks to know where he stands, Ivy will physically manifest their dual stress before it can be cornily resolved at a rooftop bird coop and in a backseat. It's a ponderous inflation of a couple of cute white kids slacking around Gotham 'til September.
The Exploding Girl @ the Tribeca Film Festival

Exasperating for its mundane narrative of youthful non-courtship camouflaged by Manhattan street-video naturalism, The Exploding Girl occasionally suggests mumblecore with less improvisation and heaps of undergrad preciousness in place of snarky irony. Zoe Kazan is Ivy, a Björkish-pigtailed college student home in New York for the summer, where she gives her displaced BFF Al (Mark Rendall), a gangly pothead and enthusiastic biology student, space on the couch. In between visits to her dance-teacher mother's class and largely unanswered phone calls to a neglectful, obviously exit-seeking boyfriend, Ivy encourages a compulsively lingering Al to party through the season without her, and assures her doctor that she's careful about managing her epilepsy, which results in a seizure only when she's "stressed out." Bradley Rust Gray's feature shares some themes with his wife So Yong Kim's winter portrait of a young couple at a crossroads, In Between Days, which he co-wrote and produced, but Exploding Girl is a less forceful variation on the earlier work's patterns, partly because Ivy and Al's passivity seems like a side effect of larger, unstated issues. (Or perhaps such pure fear and clumsiness in fledgling affairs of the heart is most compelling to 20-year-olds.) Ivy's regularly vibrating cell phone, over which she conducts a score of trivial negotiations with Al, marks her primarily as a buzzing girl at the core, but Gray's awkward title metaphor ensures that once Al stops dithering about evolutionary theory and asks to know where he stands, Ivy will physically manifest their dual stress before it can be cornily resolved at a rooftop bird coop and in a backseat. It's a ponderous inflation of a couple of cute white kids slacking around Gotham 'til September.
The Exploding Girl @ the Tribeca Film Festival
Tribeca Film Festival: Vegas: Based on a True Story
By: Nick Schager On: 05/01/2009 13:05:20 In: Festivals Comments: 0

Told with an unfussy minimalism that doesn't eclipse its metaphor's somewhat creaky obviousness, Vegas: Based on a True Story presents a microcosm of American greed and addiction via a family living on the dusty outskirts of Sin City. Eddie (Mark Greenfield) and Tracy (Nancy La Scala) are recovering gambling junkies whose lives, along with 12-year-old son Mitch (Zach Thomas), are tenuously stable, with Eddie's surreptitious plays on the slots—his face pressed close to the glittering screen—the only minor indiscretions in an otherwise routine working-class life. A visit from a Marine interested in buying their house leads to the revelation that a crime gang's suitcase full of $1 million may be buried on their property, which Tracy has diligently nurtured from a rectangle of dry desert into a green grassy yard. Smelling wealth, Eddie begins digging, which in turn leads to ruin in a manner that, after an opening act that gently and authentically establishes the characters, steers things into an overtly symbolic realm. The family's maniacal pursuit of a monetary pipe dream, and the destruction of their unity, security, and sanity, reverberates as a commentary on the country's insatiable avarice, whether that be the kind that drives people to Vegas—whose twinkling nighttime skyline, frequently seen in the distance across a stretch of barren soil, functions as a kind of entrancing bug zapper—or to gamble their futures on the market or in real estate. The game is fixed, but we're too blinded by gluttony to see it, warns Vegas. Director Amir Naderi, an Iranian who's spent the past 20 years making quasi-experimental films in the States, employs a discreet aesthetic full of long takes and no score to reinforce his argument, never more beautifully than in a shot from the back of a pickup truck that pans from the Vegas strip, to the vehicle's cabin, and then (after Eddie and Tracy have finished discussing their daily wagers and "recovery") to the arid nowhereland on the opposite side of the highway. Yet despite such graceful directorial gestures, the film's scenario unavoidably devolves into a treatise that, though timely, feels a tad too on the nose.
Vegas: Based on a True Story @ the Tribeca Film Festival

Told with an unfussy minimalism that doesn't eclipse its metaphor's somewhat creaky obviousness, Vegas: Based on a True Story presents a microcosm of American greed and addiction via a family living on the dusty outskirts of Sin City. Eddie (Mark Greenfield) and Tracy (Nancy La Scala) are recovering gambling junkies whose lives, along with 12-year-old son Mitch (Zach Thomas), are tenuously stable, with Eddie's surreptitious plays on the slots—his face pressed close to the glittering screen—the only minor indiscretions in an otherwise routine working-class life. A visit from a Marine interested in buying their house leads to the revelation that a crime gang's suitcase full of $1 million may be buried on their property, which Tracy has diligently nurtured from a rectangle of dry desert into a green grassy yard. Smelling wealth, Eddie begins digging, which in turn leads to ruin in a manner that, after an opening act that gently and authentically establishes the characters, steers things into an overtly symbolic realm. The family's maniacal pursuit of a monetary pipe dream, and the destruction of their unity, security, and sanity, reverberates as a commentary on the country's insatiable avarice, whether that be the kind that drives people to Vegas—whose twinkling nighttime skyline, frequently seen in the distance across a stretch of barren soil, functions as a kind of entrancing bug zapper—or to gamble their futures on the market or in real estate. The game is fixed, but we're too blinded by gluttony to see it, warns Vegas. Director Amir Naderi, an Iranian who's spent the past 20 years making quasi-experimental films in the States, employs a discreet aesthetic full of long takes and no score to reinforce his argument, never more beautifully than in a shot from the back of a pickup truck that pans from the Vegas strip, to the vehicle's cabin, and then (after Eddie and Tracy have finished discussing their daily wagers and "recovery") to the arid nowhereland on the opposite side of the highway. Yet despite such graceful directorial gestures, the film's scenario unavoidably devolves into a treatise that, though timely, feels a tad too on the nose.
Vegas: Based on a True Story @ the Tribeca Film Festival
Tribeca Film Festival: Stay Cool
By: Adam Keleman On: 05/01/2009 04:11:07 In: Festivals Comments: 0

Invoking every John Hughes movie under the sun, the Polish brothers' Stay Cool chronicles the return of a successful writer, Henry McCarthy (Michael Polish), to his hometown and high school, reunited with longtime friends and confronted with his past—and still clinging—inadequacies. Pulling up to the airport in a flamboyantly decorated mini cooper are Henry's two old high school buds, a supremely gay hairdresser (Sean Astin) and a rebellious tattoo artist (Josh Holloway); despite the 15-year leap forward, everyone appears frozen in a mundane, unchallenged existence, and when Henry reemerges he cleanly slips back into that role of nerdy son that everyone was used to, even with a bestselling novel on the shelves and an ever-expanding bank account. Flipping through an old yearbook, he comes across the photo of Scarlett Smith (Winona Ryder), the popular girl he once fawned after and who inspired his book How Lionel Got Me Laid. With his planned commencement speech coming up for his alma mater's graduating class, Henry now must make a decision: leave his hometown with dignity intact or reconnect with an unrequited old flame that more burned than lit ablaze.
Written by Mark Polish and directed by his brother Michael, this is thoroughly a family affair, but with their upcoming film Manure just around the corner, Stay Cool feels a bit rushed, suggesting nothing more than an homage to Pretty in Pink or Some Kind of Wonderful. The saving graces are the cinematography and production design, as the style is nearly pitch-perfect, with bold, popping color filling up the frames, taking us back to a time and aesthetic we cinematically know oh-so-well. Polish and Ryder give soulful performances, but suited in rubbery, one-note caricatures, the supporting cast, mainly Astin and Holloway, come off a bit grating. This may be attributed to the thin direction: Virtually xeroxing past '80s films into his HDcam-shot frames, the filmmakers can't find any new twists on this proverbial tale of going back to your hometown and hoping someone is still waiting for you.
Stay Cool @ the Tribeca Film Festival

Invoking every John Hughes movie under the sun, the Polish brothers' Stay Cool chronicles the return of a successful writer, Henry McCarthy (Michael Polish), to his hometown and high school, reunited with longtime friends and confronted with his past—and still clinging—inadequacies. Pulling up to the airport in a flamboyantly decorated mini cooper are Henry's two old high school buds, a supremely gay hairdresser (Sean Astin) and a rebellious tattoo artist (Josh Holloway); despite the 15-year leap forward, everyone appears frozen in a mundane, unchallenged existence, and when Henry reemerges he cleanly slips back into that role of nerdy son that everyone was used to, even with a bestselling novel on the shelves and an ever-expanding bank account. Flipping through an old yearbook, he comes across the photo of Scarlett Smith (Winona Ryder), the popular girl he once fawned after and who inspired his book How Lionel Got Me Laid. With his planned commencement speech coming up for his alma mater's graduating class, Henry now must make a decision: leave his hometown with dignity intact or reconnect with an unrequited old flame that more burned than lit ablaze.
Written by Mark Polish and directed by his brother Michael, this is thoroughly a family affair, but with their upcoming film Manure just around the corner, Stay Cool feels a bit rushed, suggesting nothing more than an homage to Pretty in Pink or Some Kind of Wonderful. The saving graces are the cinematography and production design, as the style is nearly pitch-perfect, with bold, popping color filling up the frames, taking us back to a time and aesthetic we cinematically know oh-so-well. Polish and Ryder give soulful performances, but suited in rubbery, one-note caricatures, the supporting cast, mainly Astin and Holloway, come off a bit grating. This may be attributed to the thin direction: Virtually xeroxing past '80s films into his HDcam-shot frames, the filmmakers can't find any new twists on this proverbial tale of going back to your hometown and hoping someone is still waiting for you.
Stay Cool @ the Tribeca Film Festival
Tribeca Film Festival: Dazzle
By: Adam Keleman On: 05/01/2009 00:12:42 In: Festivals Comments: 1

Dutch filmmaking provocateur Cyrus Frisch opens his new film Dazzle with a pixilated shot of a man walking down a sun-glistening beach, revealing the current world in a fractured state, but with slight glimmers of hope lingering in the background. Frisch's cinematic kaleidoscope presents a voyeuristic look at a city's many scattered, sidelined street dwellers from the view of a girl's apartment. The twentysomething girl is hardly seen, but her voice is overlaid on the disparate—essentially documentary—video recordings taken throughout Amsterdam as she feverishly rants on the phone with a doctor who initially calls to speak with her missing-in-action boyfriend Christian. Her disembodied voice proves a telling vehicle, almost God-like, and as she looks on from above, judging the desperate fools who sit on her block corner, guilt takes over her mind.
The film's images are supplied by everything from a camera phone to a consumer digital camera, and as he sporadically cuts to a starkly black, void-like frame, Frisch uses negative space to suggest a kind of sanctuary from the ugly dirge of street life, sufficiently establishing a dire mood wherever a city's lost souls congregate and their unclean bodies fester. The filmmaker melds together a myriad of archival footage and video effects, deftly exhibiting a gritty, grainy texture on the screen, which cements the dour tone of this compelling, experimental work.
In a half-hearted attempt to reconstruct his own version of Hiroshima Mon Amour, Frisch sees the well-meaning girl and doctor who converse over the phone as deeply concerned observers, sharing maddening descriptions of decay and, in effect, narrating the routine existence of the countless meandering, displaced vagabonds who deal drugs in the daytime and howl in the streets when the darkness settles. As abstract modes manifest a deluge of unearthly creatures and madness, Dazzle reveals the crack in the walls of humanity, delicately reflecting upon man's inability to survive when emotional burden becomes too much to handle.
Dazzle @ the Tribeca Film Festival

Dutch filmmaking provocateur Cyrus Frisch opens his new film Dazzle with a pixilated shot of a man walking down a sun-glistening beach, revealing the current world in a fractured state, but with slight glimmers of hope lingering in the background. Frisch's cinematic kaleidoscope presents a voyeuristic look at a city's many scattered, sidelined street dwellers from the view of a girl's apartment. The twentysomething girl is hardly seen, but her voice is overlaid on the disparate—essentially documentary—video recordings taken throughout Amsterdam as she feverishly rants on the phone with a doctor who initially calls to speak with her missing-in-action boyfriend Christian. Her disembodied voice proves a telling vehicle, almost God-like, and as she looks on from above, judging the desperate fools who sit on her block corner, guilt takes over her mind.
The film's images are supplied by everything from a camera phone to a consumer digital camera, and as he sporadically cuts to a starkly black, void-like frame, Frisch uses negative space to suggest a kind of sanctuary from the ugly dirge of street life, sufficiently establishing a dire mood wherever a city's lost souls congregate and their unclean bodies fester. The filmmaker melds together a myriad of archival footage and video effects, deftly exhibiting a gritty, grainy texture on the screen, which cements the dour tone of this compelling, experimental work.
In a half-hearted attempt to reconstruct his own version of Hiroshima Mon Amour, Frisch sees the well-meaning girl and doctor who converse over the phone as deeply concerned observers, sharing maddening descriptions of decay and, in effect, narrating the routine existence of the countless meandering, displaced vagabonds who deal drugs in the daytime and howl in the streets when the darkness settles. As abstract modes manifest a deluge of unearthly creatures and madness, Dazzle reveals the crack in the walls of humanity, delicately reflecting upon man's inability to survive when emotional burden becomes too much to handle.
Dazzle @ the Tribeca Film Festival
Tribeca Film Festival: The Eclipse
By: Bill Weber On: 04/30/2009 19:07:51 In: Festivals Comments: 0

A much duller tale than its Irish literary festival setting would suggest, The Eclipse is the third feature film directed by award-winning playwright Conor McPherson, who has further damaged the proceedings by clumsily inserting jump-in-your-seat ghost-story thrills into a wan character study. In a picturesque seaport town, woodworking teacher Michael Farr (Ciarán Hinds, imposing and largely wasted) operates on several levels of denial, burdened by his unresolved grief for his recently deceased wife, demonstrations of authoritarian bluster to his two tween kids, longings to resurrect collegiate writing ambitions, and horror-movie visions of his institutionalized father-in-law. Michael pauses in furtively adapting his spectral encounters at his icy attic's desk long enough to work as driver and gofer at the annual lit shindig for both a supernatural-fiction hottie (Iben Hjejle) and a loutish American drunk who pens bestsellers (Aidan Quinn, hamming like a sitcom Hemingway). Hinds and Hjejle do a coy mating dance, he predictably ends up in a knockdown ball-squeezing brawl with jealous Quinn, and has his zombie nightmares interrupted by a slip on a real pool of blood—though a suicide in this context is just a plot point to facilitate the tearful, healing embrace of a spouse's apparition. The dialogue and situations all tend to the generic and mechanical, shaken up far too infrequently by Hjejle's tipsy smile or Hinds's slapstick tumble into a lakeside hilltop's man-sized pothole. The types played by the three leads never bridge their insurmountable distance from reality, and Hjejle's familiarity with the spirit world implies a survivor's trauma equal to Hinds's, but one is never revealed. Attempting to darken its touristy middlebrow sensibility with shocks and farce, this Eclipse characteristically doesn't illuminate anything.
The Eclipse @ the Tribeca Film Festival

A much duller tale than its Irish literary festival setting would suggest, The Eclipse is the third feature film directed by award-winning playwright Conor McPherson, who has further damaged the proceedings by clumsily inserting jump-in-your-seat ghost-story thrills into a wan character study. In a picturesque seaport town, woodworking teacher Michael Farr (Ciarán Hinds, imposing and largely wasted) operates on several levels of denial, burdened by his unresolved grief for his recently deceased wife, demonstrations of authoritarian bluster to his two tween kids, longings to resurrect collegiate writing ambitions, and horror-movie visions of his institutionalized father-in-law. Michael pauses in furtively adapting his spectral encounters at his icy attic's desk long enough to work as driver and gofer at the annual lit shindig for both a supernatural-fiction hottie (Iben Hjejle) and a loutish American drunk who pens bestsellers (Aidan Quinn, hamming like a sitcom Hemingway). Hinds and Hjejle do a coy mating dance, he predictably ends up in a knockdown ball-squeezing brawl with jealous Quinn, and has his zombie nightmares interrupted by a slip on a real pool of blood—though a suicide in this context is just a plot point to facilitate the tearful, healing embrace of a spouse's apparition. The dialogue and situations all tend to the generic and mechanical, shaken up far too infrequently by Hjejle's tipsy smile or Hinds's slapstick tumble into a lakeside hilltop's man-sized pothole. The types played by the three leads never bridge their insurmountable distance from reality, and Hjejle's familiarity with the spirit world implies a survivor's trauma equal to Hinds's, but one is never revealed. Attempting to darken its touristy middlebrow sensibility with shocks and farce, this Eclipse characteristically doesn't illuminate anything.
The Eclipse @ the Tribeca Film Festival
Tribeca Film Festival: The House of the Devil
By: Nick Schager On: 04/30/2009 17:36:23 In: Festivals Comments: 1

Yet another of this year's homage-facsimiles, The House of the Devil forgoes campy self-awareness in favor of reverential faithfulness—and in doing so, implicitly critiques contemporary horror cinema. With its cinematography combining unadorned realism and angular expressionism, and its title sequence emblazoned with yellow title cards and marked by synth music, freeze frames, and sudden zooms, Ti West's latest mimics '80s horror flicks with a straight face. Its rhythms, dialogue, and period detail are so finely attuned to the style of its chosen era that, were it not for a technical dexterity generally absent from its predecessors, the film might pass as an exhumed relic.
West clearly knows his stuff, but isn't out to flaunt it with a smirk, and thus there's great pleasure to be had from his introductory passages, in which college sophomore Samantha (Margot Kidder lookalike Jocelin Donahue) rents a house (from Dee Wallace's landlady) and, strapped for cash, responds to a campus flyer for a babysitter. West, however, doesn't rush his heroine into a situation that—as confirmed by the title, and the fact that when she calls about the gig, it's Tom Noonan's sinister voice that answers—is destined for horror, laying out Samantha's friendship with Megan (Greta Gerwig) and her dire financial motivations with methodical patience. "I promise to make this as painless for you as possible," says Mr. Ulman (Noonan) in convincing Samantha to accept the job, a comment rife with black humor. Yet West plays his material not for giggles, but for slow-burn chills, employing languorous long takes and pitched, frequently low-positioned camera setups to build a sense of unreal terror. Upon arriving at the rural Ulman estate, located right past a cemetery, Samantha learns that the job involves watching an elderly woman while Mr. Ulman and his wife (Mary Woronov) enjoy the evening's historic full-moon eclipse.
As the tale unfolds, a debt to not only '80s horror films, but also Rosemary's Baby, The Amityville Horror, and Hammer's gothic '70s classics also emerges: food (specifically, pizza) is a source of fetid disgust; murderous mysteries are discovered in the remote mansion's nooks and crannies; and Satanism is revealed as a malevolent force with which Samantha must ultimately reckon. Before that confrontation can occur, however, House of the Devil proves content to simply spend time in Samantha's company. And though she's a rather one-dimensional audience proxy, West's leisurely depiction of her exploring the Ulman residence—highlighted by a sequence in which she dances about, cumbersome walkman affixed to hip, listening to the Fixx's "One Thing Leads to Another"—allows his story's dread to slowly creep under one's skin.
If West's unhurried pace can occasionally be trying, his refusal to indulge in cheap jolt scares or force his protagonist to behave in ludicrously nonsensical ways—aside, of course, from the never-quite-plausible decision to accept any offer from Noonan's cane-wielding weirdo—seems not only a welcome antidote to today's current spate of disposable hack-and-slashers, but something of a direct rebuke. The House of the Devil elicits fear not from knife-wielding maniacs, but, rather, from a sense of macabre unease that spews forth from, among other moments, Mrs. Ulman's unseemly, sex-fixated initial conversation with Samantha, or the preceding shot of the girls being greeted at the front door by Noonan, their unsettled looks directed upward at an imposing face cut off by West's frame. Throughout, the director employs conventions with an assuredness that's never tainted by look-at-me egotism, his fidelity to the genre marked by an admiration that carries through to the very, bloody end, which—true to its forbearers—is mildly anticlimactic, resorting as it does to images of monstrous satanic evil that can't quite match what one's own imagination had already cooked up. No matter. As evidenced by the care taken with its establishing chapters, House of the Devil knows that, even with regard to hell, the destination isn't half as terrifying as the journey.
House of the Devil @ the Tribeca Film Festival






Yet another of this year's homage-facsimiles, The House of the Devil forgoes campy self-awareness in favor of reverential faithfulness—and in doing so, implicitly critiques contemporary horror cinema. With its cinematography combining unadorned realism and angular expressionism, and its title sequence emblazoned with yellow title cards and marked by synth music, freeze frames, and sudden zooms, Ti West's latest mimics '80s horror flicks with a straight face. Its rhythms, dialogue, and period detail are so finely attuned to the style of its chosen era that, were it not for a technical dexterity generally absent from its predecessors, the film might pass as an exhumed relic.
West clearly knows his stuff, but isn't out to flaunt it with a smirk, and thus there's great pleasure to be had from his introductory passages, in which college sophomore Samantha (Margot Kidder lookalike Jocelin Donahue) rents a house (from Dee Wallace's landlady) and, strapped for cash, responds to a campus flyer for a babysitter. West, however, doesn't rush his heroine into a situation that—as confirmed by the title, and the fact that when she calls about the gig, it's Tom Noonan's sinister voice that answers—is destined for horror, laying out Samantha's friendship with Megan (Greta Gerwig) and her dire financial motivations with methodical patience. "I promise to make this as painless for you as possible," says Mr. Ulman (Noonan) in convincing Samantha to accept the job, a comment rife with black humor. Yet West plays his material not for giggles, but for slow-burn chills, employing languorous long takes and pitched, frequently low-positioned camera setups to build a sense of unreal terror. Upon arriving at the rural Ulman estate, located right past a cemetery, Samantha learns that the job involves watching an elderly woman while Mr. Ulman and his wife (Mary Woronov) enjoy the evening's historic full-moon eclipse.
As the tale unfolds, a debt to not only '80s horror films, but also Rosemary's Baby, The Amityville Horror, and Hammer's gothic '70s classics also emerges: food (specifically, pizza) is a source of fetid disgust; murderous mysteries are discovered in the remote mansion's nooks and crannies; and Satanism is revealed as a malevolent force with which Samantha must ultimately reckon. Before that confrontation can occur, however, House of the Devil proves content to simply spend time in Samantha's company. And though she's a rather one-dimensional audience proxy, West's leisurely depiction of her exploring the Ulman residence—highlighted by a sequence in which she dances about, cumbersome walkman affixed to hip, listening to the Fixx's "One Thing Leads to Another"—allows his story's dread to slowly creep under one's skin.
If West's unhurried pace can occasionally be trying, his refusal to indulge in cheap jolt scares or force his protagonist to behave in ludicrously nonsensical ways—aside, of course, from the never-quite-plausible decision to accept any offer from Noonan's cane-wielding weirdo—seems not only a welcome antidote to today's current spate of disposable hack-and-slashers, but something of a direct rebuke. The House of the Devil elicits fear not from knife-wielding maniacs, but, rather, from a sense of macabre unease that spews forth from, among other moments, Mrs. Ulman's unseemly, sex-fixated initial conversation with Samantha, or the preceding shot of the girls being greeted at the front door by Noonan, their unsettled looks directed upward at an imposing face cut off by West's frame. Throughout, the director employs conventions with an assuredness that's never tainted by look-at-me egotism, his fidelity to the genre marked by an admiration that carries through to the very, bloody end, which—true to its forbearers—is mildly anticlimactic, resorting as it does to images of monstrous satanic evil that can't quite match what one's own imagination had already cooked up. No matter. As evidenced by the care taken with its establishing chapters, House of the Devil knows that, even with regard to hell, the destination isn't half as terrifying as the journey.
House of the Devil @ the Tribeca Film Festival
Tribeca Film Festival: Soul Power
By: Nick Schager On: 04/30/2009 15:05:16 In: Festivals Comments: 1

Sparingly touched upon in 1996's Academy Award-winning When We Were Kings, the three-day, all-star Zaire '74 music festival that ran alongside Muhammad Ali and George Foreman's epic Rumble in the Jungle fight receives the spotlight treatment in Soul Power. Directed by Kings editor Jeffrey Levy-Hinte, this amiable if slight doc is culled from the hours of footage left out of its predecessor, and the results are unsurprisingly underwhelming, less because of the performances captured than because there's no substantive story to tell. Concocted by Hugh Masekela and Stewart Levine (the latter heard, with stoned-red eyes, not-so-cryptically referring to an extra 32 pounds of luggage), and promoted by Don King, Zaire '74 brought together African-American and African artists on stage in Kinshasa, Africa, the underlying intent being to present and promote racial/cultural solidarity. Bill Withers, B.B. King, and headliner James Brown all espouse a desire to reconnect with their ancestral home, a sentiment frequently heard but rarely explored, given that Levy-Hinte relegates himself to using only footage shot at the event.
Soul Power spends its first half documenting the humdrum buildup to the show, which is dominated by canned press conferences, photo opportunities, and dull-as-dirt snippets of an investment firm representative mildly fretting over logistical non-issues. Once the legends hit the stage, the film finds a more comfortable groove, with Withers's mesmerizing rendition of "Hope She'll be Happier" and Brown's rollicking "Say It Loud (I'm Black and I'm Proud)" proving two of the standouts. Still, there's little rhythm or depth to Levy-Hinte's affectionate portrait. The optimism felt, and returning-to-our-roots declarations made, by many of those involved are undercut by Brown's surprisingly candid admission that he will "not get liberated broke," as well as the unmentioned tyranny of concert benefactor, Zairian president Mobuto, whose giant portraits are seen looming above the city. Furthermore, while Brown is a magnetic figure, the sporadic appearances by Ali hopelessly unbalance the proceedings, his fiercely outspoken interviews providing the only morsels of substance and, consequently, throwing into sharp relief Zaire '74's status, in relation to Ali-Forman, as the occasion's second-stage.
Soul Power @ the Tribeca Film Festival

Sparingly touched upon in 1996's Academy Award-winning When We Were Kings, the three-day, all-star Zaire '74 music festival that ran alongside Muhammad Ali and George Foreman's epic Rumble in the Jungle fight receives the spotlight treatment in Soul Power. Directed by Kings editor Jeffrey Levy-Hinte, this amiable if slight doc is culled from the hours of footage left out of its predecessor, and the results are unsurprisingly underwhelming, less because of the performances captured than because there's no substantive story to tell. Concocted by Hugh Masekela and Stewart Levine (the latter heard, with stoned-red eyes, not-so-cryptically referring to an extra 32 pounds of luggage), and promoted by Don King, Zaire '74 brought together African-American and African artists on stage in Kinshasa, Africa, the underlying intent being to present and promote racial/cultural solidarity. Bill Withers, B.B. King, and headliner James Brown all espouse a desire to reconnect with their ancestral home, a sentiment frequently heard but rarely explored, given that Levy-Hinte relegates himself to using only footage shot at the event.
Soul Power spends its first half documenting the humdrum buildup to the show, which is dominated by canned press conferences, photo opportunities, and dull-as-dirt snippets of an investment firm representative mildly fretting over logistical non-issues. Once the legends hit the stage, the film finds a more comfortable groove, with Withers's mesmerizing rendition of "Hope She'll be Happier" and Brown's rollicking "Say It Loud (I'm Black and I'm Proud)" proving two of the standouts. Still, there's little rhythm or depth to Levy-Hinte's affectionate portrait. The optimism felt, and returning-to-our-roots declarations made, by many of those involved are undercut by Brown's surprisingly candid admission that he will "not get liberated broke," as well as the unmentioned tyranny of concert benefactor, Zairian president Mobuto, whose giant portraits are seen looming above the city. Furthermore, while Brown is a magnetic figure, the sporadic appearances by Ali hopelessly unbalance the proceedings, his fiercely outspoken interviews providing the only morsels of substance and, consequently, throwing into sharp relief Zaire '74's status, in relation to Ali-Forman, as the occasion's second-stage.
Soul Power @ the Tribeca Film Festival
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