Let Me Out: Korean Zombie Student Films and the People Who Make Them

In an era when technology allows Jafar Panahi to be about as prolific as Woody Allen, would-be filmmakers are running out of excuses.  After years of snarking from the sidelines, senior year film student Kang Mu-young is suddenly put on the filmmaking spot.  Bedlam will ensue as he tries to shoot his zombie melodrama in Kim Chang-Lae and Jae Soh’s Let Me Out (trailer here), which screens in select cities this Wednesday, via Tugg.

A bit Holden Caulfield-ish, Kang loves to call out directors for being phonies.  However, after a rather tactless Q&A session, Yang Ik-june (the indie director playing himself) turns the tables on the student, offering $5,000 in start up money for Kang’s senior film.  Hurriedly, Kang dusts off his old discarded zombie screenplay (titled Let Me Out, probably because the characters are constantly banging on locked doors) and assembles a cast and crew who are not already attached to other projects.

Yang’s producer buddy Yong-woon recruits a motley but workable group, including Hong Sang-soo’s camera loader for their director of photography.  The casting of Sun-hye, a third rate starlet enrolled in their film school, opens the door for some sponsorship opportunities—mainly from liquor and cigarette companies.  This will definitely be a boozy set.  Ah-young, a vastly more talented fellow classmate, also agrees to be the female co-lead.  She is actually good in her part, even though she lacks confidence in both her abilities and Kang’s script.

Like the zombies it crudely portrays, the film-within-the-film takes hit after hit, but refuses to die.  Cast and crew members will quit, equipment will break, and they will be evicted from their locations, but the film lumbers along erratically, just the same.  Co-directors (and Seoul Institute of the Arts faculty members) Kim and Soh maintain a manic energy level, but they never lose sight of the human element.  Despite all of Kang’s humbling frustrations, LMO remains a big, earnest valentine to scrappy DIY filmmaking.

Kwon Hyun-sang, the son of Cannes award winning director Im Kwon-taek, clearly relates to the wannabe Tarantino, nicely portraying his long deferred maturation process.  K-pop and Korean TV star Park Hee-von provides an appealingly down-to-earth foil as Ah-young, while Jessica Choi relishes creating chaos as Sun-hye, the hot mess.

This is indeed the sort of film that will recharge your cineaste batteries.  There are scores of in-jokes and cinema references, but that is all frosting on the cake.  At its core, LMO is really all about a young filmmaker getting his act and his film together.  It is a story a wide spectrum of viewers should be able to relate to, but it will have special resonance for fans of zombie movies, like the one Kang is trying to complete.  Surprisingly heartfelt at times, Let Me Out is highly recommended for fans of Korean cinema and cult movies.  It screens this Wednesday (9/25) in New York (at the AMC Loews Kips Bay), as well as San Francisco, Dallas, and Atlanta, but since these are Tugg shows, you had better book now to be sure you will have a ticket and the screenings will go forward.

Fantastic Fest ’13: She Wolf

She is the horndog’s natural predator and she is racking up quite a body count.  It will be a tricky matter determining exactly who or what she is, but she is definitely out to teach the slimier men out there a permanent lesson.  The gender war hits the streets of Buenos Aires hard in Tamae Garateguy’s She Wolf (trailer here), which screens during the 2013 Fantastic Fest.

Just for the record, she is not affiliated with the SS.  She is a werewolf, who shifts her appearance, alternating between three seductress personas, or maybe she is a serial killer with multiple personalities.  It is hard to say definitively.  Sometimes people recognize her in her different guises and sometimes they don’t.  Either way, foreplay typically leads to a gruesome death for the men she ensnares.

The She Wolf is not out to kill all men—just the scummy would be players.  This will include the Tom Sizemore-esque undercover cop investigating her killings.  After their first encounter, he becomes rather obsessed with her, for several reasons.  However, the She Wolf falls for the punky punk who rescues her.

If you are easily offended by explicit sex, blood-spurting violence, gritty drug use, and black-and-white cinematography, then good luck with She Wolf.  There should definitely be an audience for it at Fantastic Fest, but it clearly appeals to the artier end of the cult film spectrum. Yet, despite some head-scratching moments, it somehow never feels pretentious. Frankly, it has a similar vibe to the sort of indie provocations that were filmed on the Lower East Side during the early 1980’s.  There are also plenty of naughty bits.

The raw ferocity of three actresses playing the She Wolf elevates the film well above seedy exploitative fare.  We see their rage and their vulnerability, often simultaneously.  Waifish Guadalupe Docampo’s every kill is shocking, whereas the voluptuous Luján Ariza certainly looks like she could be some sort of man-eater.  However, it is the more mature Mónica Lairana who really lays it on the line, especially in her bracing scenes with Edgardo Castro’s effectively sleazy copper.

There are rough edges all over She Wolf, but they are often (if not always) part of its aesthetic. Not nearly as didactic as it sounds on paper, She Wolf is an intriguing (and mostly successful) variation on the werewolf and serial killer genres.  Recommended for more sophisticated horror fans, it screens again this coming Tuesday (9/24) at the Alamo Lakeline, as part of this year’s Fantastic Fest.  For patrons in Austin, The Apostle, Big Bad Wolves, Confession of Murder, R100, and Timecrimes are also recommended, with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

Zaytoun: Olive Branches Come from Olive Trees

A captured Israeli air force pilot and a Beirut street urchin have one thing in common.  They would both much rather be in Israel.  They just have different names for it.  Yes, the presumed enemies will form a significant alliance in Eran Riklis’s Zaytoun (trailer here), which opens today in New York.

In 1982, the PLO capitalized on the civil war raging across Lebanon, using the nearly failed state as a staging ground to launch rocket attacks into Israel.  Much to world’s shock and dismay, Israel decided to defend herself.  Unfortunately, one pilot will be coming home the hard way.  Shot down and captured, Yoni will be beaten and tortured before the PLO trades him for a bulk quantity of their terrorists imprisoned in Israel.  Young Fahed is one of his most rabid tormentors.  A cigarette hawker and occasional pupil of the PLO’s “terrorist school,” Fayed has bought into the propaganda he has spent his life submersed in.

However, the call of his ancestral homeland and a filial obligation to plant his late father’s olive tree sampling in said land compel Fahed to make a deal with Yoni.  He will help the battered and bloodied pilot escape in exchange for entrée into Israel.  Initially, they are still openly hostile to each other, but an uneasy friendship develops as they work together to evade the trigger-happy Syrians (yes, one can well imagine that would be a bonding experience).

Obviously, Zaytoun is the sort of movie where the leads learn they are not so different from each other, but the supporting characters all hail from central stereotype casting. Yet, despite the very particular geo-political context, Zaytoun is surprisingly even-handed.  Frankly, it does absolutely nothing to burnish the PLO’s image, mostly portraying them as a band of thugs.  Granted, it never really explains the sort of onslaught Israel faced, but the film would be better described as simplistic rather than didactic.  Basically, Nader Rizq’s screenplay seems to suggest even the gravest of enemies can find common ground if forced to schlep an olive tree through an urban battlefield together.

The non-Israeli Stephen Dorff is completely convincing as the gruff but sensitive Yoni, looking a bit like Kiefer Sutherland in 24 (and that’s not a bad thing).  Likewise, Abdallah El Akal is also believably petulant as Fahed, nicely conveying the stop-and-start maturation his character undergoes.

This is not the film that will turn the world’s swords into ploughshares, but it works rather well on the micro-level because the central relationship is so surprisingly compelling. Although it is not nearly as moving as Riklis’s first-rate Human Resources Manager, it is about as good as peacenik cinema gets.  Recommended for fans of Israeli cinema and Dorff, Zaytoun opens today (9/20) in New York at the Village East.

The Colony: The Future on Ice

The future will be nasty, brutish, and snowy.  To combat global warming huge weather controlling machines were invented, but tragically they got stuck on snow—or something like that. On the positive side, summers in New York have become almost bearable.  Cash out your 401K’s now, because if that all weren’t bad enough, cannibalism starts to spike in Jeff Renfroe’s The Colony (trailer here), which opens tomorrow in New York.

So, its pretty cold out there.  Only scattershot handfuls of humanity survive in underground colonies, hoping to somehow outlast the big freeze.  Given their cramped living conditions, Flu has become a matter of life and death.  Basically, if you cough, you are sent out to die.  The overzealous Mason is the one in charge of “quarantine,” a fact that does not sit well with Sam, the sensitive handyman.  He takes the issue up with Briggs, Colony 7’s commander, who inconveniently has more pressing concerns.

Their sister colony sent a distress signal, ominously followed by radio silence, so Briggs takes Sam and an easily winded teenager out to investigate.  After making the arduous journey past a series of surprisingly cool looking matte paintings, the expeditionary party discovers their allied colony was over-run by a pack of cannibals. Despite descending into savagery, they prove to be dashed difficult to kill.

It is rather ironic this tale is climate catastrophe is Canadian-made, because the weather will look rather temperate to half the country.  Yet, the Northern location shoots, filmed at an old mouth-balled Canadian NORAD facility, are what work best for Colony.  Likewise, the hulking frost-encrusted weather machines are quite striking looking.  Unfortunately, the script (credited to Renfroe and three others) feels like it was cobbled together from Roland Emmerich’s slush pile.

For a derivative film, Laurence Fishburne’s performance as Briggs is largely derived from his work in the superior Event Horizon, but frankly, that is not entirely bad.  Similarly, Bill Paxton recycles his “game over, man” persona for Mason, but with less successful results.  Kevin Zegers and Charlotte Sullivan are pretty bland as Sam and his potential love interest, Kai the seed archivist and computer specialist, but at least her character listens to Ellington, so you have to tip your hat to that.  Considering Dru Viergever’s character is only credited as “Feral Leader,” it is probably safe to assume not much of an awards campaign is being planned on his behalf.  Nevertheless, he certainly looks the part.

To call The Colony a meathead movie would over-praise it.  Visually, it accomplishes much with its limited resources, but never rises above mediocrity in any other criteria.  Just kind of whatever (at best), it is hard to imagine anyone will pay Manhattan ticket prices to see it when The Colony opens tomorrow (9/20) in New York at the AMC Empire.

Jewtopia: the Off-Broadway Hit with Names You’ll Know

It was an Off-Broadway hit that inspired a world tour and a coffee table book.  As a bonus, it also had a real story, not just dudes in blue make-up, banging on trash cans, making it a natural candidate for a film treatment.  Director Bryan Fogel and his original co-writer Sam Wolfson have duly adapted the big screen version of Jewtopia (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Christian O’Connell makes Miracle Whip look earthy.  His happiest times were spent dating college girlfriend Rebecca Ogin, because he enjoyed the way she took charge of their relationship.  He never really recovered after she dumped him at graduation over the whole non-Jewish thing.  Years later, the clueless O’Connell crashes a Jewish singles mixer and somehow scores the phone number of Alison Marks, a rabbi’s daughter. 

Not wanting to repeat past disappointments, O’Connell tries to reinvent himself as Avi Rosenberg, with the help of his childhood friend, Adam Lipschitz.  Meanwhile, Lipschitz is having panic attacks at the prospect of his impending marriage to Hannah, who is exactly the sort of woman O’Connell always desired, except maybe more so.

Get ready for a bushel of borscht-belt identity jokes.  You can probably guess at some of the complication that will arise as O’Connell/Rosenberg woos Marks, but Jewtopia features not one, but two sequences involving surgery in private places (so consider yourself warned).  Indeed, there is no shortage of gags to tut-tut over, but Fogel never really lights out into gleefully offensive Mel Brooks territory.  Still, Joel David Moore is effectively manic as Lipschitz, scoring most of the film’s laughs, while developing some appealing chemistry with Elaine Tan’s Sala Khan, an attractive and ever so unlikely alternative to his painfully caricatured fiancée.

Jennifer Love Hewitt is actually not bad as Marks and Ivan Sergei (probably most recognizable from John Woo’s Once a Thief) is reasonable presentable as O’Connell.  Even professionally sensitive viewers will chuckle at Jon Lovitz and Wendie Malick doing their shtick as Adam’s father and Alison’s mother, respectively.  Unfortunately, Rita Wilson and Jamie-Lynn Sigler never overcome their characters’ unsubtle clichés.

Much of Jewtopia’s humor might resonate to some extent with its target audience, but the WASP jokes, mostly involving guns and bigotry, fall rather flat.  Really, that’s best Fogel could do for gentiles?  Regardless, it is all harmless fluff that Moore, Lovitz, and Malik industriously milk for laughs as best they can.  Better left to die-hard fans of the stage production, Jewtopia opens this Friday (9/20) in New York at the Quad Cinema.

My Lucky Star: Zhang Ziyi’s Sophie Returns

It is hard for a comic book artist to navigate a Sex in the City world, especially a hopeless romantic like Sophie.  At least her work provides her an outlet for her frustrations, but not a steady income.  However, Sophie will finally meet her real life international man of mystery in My Lucky Star (trailer here), Dennie Gordon’s stand-alone sequel to Sophie’s Revenge, which opens this Friday in New York.

Sophie is a talented artist, but the world’s worst travel agent.  Her day job boss tells her so, frequently.  When she wins the “My Lucky Star” sweepstakes’ luxury vacation to Singapore, her man-eating friends convince her to take the plunge.  As soon as she arrives, the clumsy knockout stumbles into the arms of David Yan, who happens to be the spitting image of her comic book super spy.  He also happens to be in the same line of work—a fact Sophie is painfully oblivious to. 

Before long, Sophie’s attempts to pursue Yan put her smack dab in the middle of a caper involving a massive stolen diamond.  It happens to be perfect for refracting a WMD laser, which is why the notorious Black Widow arms dealer is out to acquire it.  Yes, she is also hot and Yan happens to have some complicated history with her.  The indomitable Sophie will have to knuckle down if she is going to win the man of her dreams and save the world (or at least Bermuda).

The first domestic Chinese production helmed by an American woman (Gordon, best known for Joe Dirt and her DGA Award winning work on Tracey Takes On), Lucky incontrovertibly establishes Zhang Ziyi looks cute in a gondolier’s costume.  You might have suspected as much, but here’s the proof.  In fact, she has more wardrobe changes than Anne Hathaway hosting the Oscars.  That is really what this film is all about: fab clothes, the picturesque opulence of Singapore and Macao, and a spot of vicarious romance. 

Sophie’s Revenge was a monster hit in China, so producer Zhang’s title character is back to feed the appetite she helped create (but viewers need not be familiar with the first film to follow the second).  However, for American audiences, it is rather ironic to see her playing a lovelorn klutz so soon after her exquisitely tragic, massively butt-kicking turn in Wong Kar Wai’s The Grandmaster.  She is clearly versatile—and quite appealing in both very different films.

Wang Leehom, the American-born Taiwanese pop idol, is a game straight man, looking credible enough in his action sequences.  Ruby Lin and Chen Yao also return from Revenge, adding attitude and sex appeal as Sophie’s BFFs.  However, Terri Kwan sort of steals the show as the Black Widow.

Indeed, aside from an overbearing boss here and a henchman there, everyone in Lucky is outrageously good looking.  This is definitely escapist fare.  However, fans of Revenge will miss Sophie’s unapologetically macabre animated fantasies.  Gordon doubles down on the slapstick humor instead, which, ironically, does not travel as well.  Never particularly deep or memorable, My Lucky Star offers up plenty of sugary confections for the eye and a dash of plucky empowerment.  If that suits your movie going purposes, it opens this Friday (9/20) in New York at the AMC Empire, courtesy of China Lion Entertainment.

Ip Man—the Final Fight: the Grandmaster’s Golden Years

Ip Man was such a powerful kung fu master, he could actually warp time.  Fans can only assume as much if they wish to rationalize the conflicting timelines of the various Ip Man films released in recent years.  The dates and places might change, but Ip Man remains the grandmaster of grandmasters.  Herman Yau dramatizes his twilight years in Ip Man—the Final Flight, featuring a different Ip, yet one still more or less compatible Wong Kar-wai’s Grandmaster (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

In the 1950’s and 1960’s, Hong Kong’s go-go economy had yet to blast off.  Master Ip earns little more than a subsistence living teaching his Wing Chun style of kung fu to students.  Well known throughout the city, Master Ip could probably do a brisker business were it not for his own self-imposed restrictions.  Kung fu is a way of life for him—not a commodity to be commercialized.

In a way, The Final Flight is a bit Gumpish, casting Master Ip as an observer of two decades of Hong Kong’s growing pains, including the rise of trade unionism and the rampant gangsterism within the Walled City.  However, when it finally gets down to fighting, Final delivers some spectacular street melees.

While produced independently of Wong Kar Wai’s long awaited martial arts spectacle and Wilson Yip’s Ip Man franchise, Anthony Wong is not a bad likeness for both Donnie Yen and “Little” Tony Leung Chiu Wai in their AARP years.  Wong might not look particularly spry, but he is a steely old cat, so it is easy to buy into him as the veteran martial artist.  After all, the genre has a long history of butt-kicking graybeards.

Indeed, Wong’s Zen-like gravitas is perfect for the venerable Ip.  He also develops some appealingly ambiguous chemistry with Zhou Chu Chu, playing a scandalous nightclub singer attracted to his old bad self.  However, the film is overstuffed with Ip’s disciples.  You would think half the city was studying under him. Regardless, Jordan Chan adds real hardboiled heft to the film as Tang Shing, a not completely corrupt copper and former student of Ip’s.  He creates a spinoff-worthy character should the filmmakers wish to further complicate the Ip Man universe.

Yau should satisfy fans with his gritty street action and humanistic portrayal of the Ip family.  In fact, Ip’s son, Ip Chun served as a technical advisor and appears in a small supporting role.  Final Fight is also bolder than its predecessor films depicting Ip’s most famous student, Bruce Lee.  Although never named as such, it is hard to miss the implication when Master Ip meets with a former student turned famous actor, whom the audience only sees from behind, sporting conspicuous sunglasses.

It was the apostolic connection to Bruce Lee that launched the Ip Man filmmaking craze to begin with, but the Master has since taken on a media life of his own. Nicely choreographed with a wistful vibe that sets it apart from the pack, Yau’s latest Ip Man is a worthy addition to the Ip canon.  Recommended for martial arts fans with a strong appreciation of tradition, Ip Man—the Final Fight opens this Friday (9/20) in New York at the Cinema Village.

Haute Cuisine: Mitterrand’s Private Chef

The irony was hard to miss when France’s newly elected Socialist president hired a private chef to preside over his freshly re-opened personal kitchen in the Élysée Palace, unless you were either Mitterand or the new chef.  Irony will have not have a place on the menu for Hortense Laborie, but she will face plenty of turf fighting and bureaucratic haggling in Christian Vincent’s Haute Cuisine (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Laborie is rather stunned when she is recruited from relative obscurity to Périgord to cook for the unnamed President transparently based on François Mitterrand.  Initially, the presidential advisors, such as her nominal supervisor David Azoulay, quite like having the classy Laborie around the Palace.  However, the “Big Kitchen” bitterly resents her presence, especially since she receives all the small prestigious assignments, leaving them with the high volume, mass produced meals.  Unfortunately, when a political shake-up forces out Azoulay, he is replaced by a crass bean-counter.  Concerned about the cost of the small kitchen and the President’s rising cholesterol, he starts micro-managing Laborie’s menus, which does not sit well with her.

Haute Cuisine is a pleasant enough film, offering up plenty of savory looking regional French dishes.  Food necessarily plays a central role in the film, but there is a deceptive simplicity to many of Laborie’s meals that do not lend themselves to the over-the-top cinematic treatment of other vicarious food films.

Based on the real life Danièle Delpeuch, Catherine Frot portrays Laborie with intelligence, elegance, and backbone.  She is clearly a force to be reckoned with.  Although Jean d’Ormesson is a poor likeness for Mitterrand, his President’s world weary graciousness works perfectly within the film’s dramatic context.  Yet, even though the film employs Laborie’s year-long stint at an Antarctic research base (again, true story) as an intriguing framing device, the overall arc of the film is oddly flat.  In fact, the big turning point comes and goes before viewers even realize it.

Still, for Francophiles, Haute Cuisine delivers a potent shot of Frenchness.  For those who enjoy the air of sophistication more than the grubby business of plot points and conflicts, it is your best bet this week.  Earning a restrained recommended more for connoisseurs of French culture rather than food movie junkies, Haute Cuisine opens this Friday (9/20) in New York at the Landmark Sunshine.

A Single Shot: Sam Rockwell Goes Hunting

Call it a simple improvisation rather than a simple plan.  Nobody thinks too far ahead or particularly deeply in this criminal morality tale.  As a result, there is a mess of trouble for everyone in David M. Rosenthal’s roughly passable backcountry noir, A Single Shot (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

John Moon is an unemployed loser, whose wife Jess has filed for a divorce.  Aside from some occasional farm labor temp jobs, Moon mostly puts food on his table through hunting.  While stalking his game one fateful morning, Moon inadvertently kills a young woman squatting in the woods.  Attempting to cover-up the accidental shooting he discovers a large stash of cash.

Now Moon has enough money to retain Pitt, the town’s slimiest lawyer, and throw some look-I’m-not-a-deadbeat-money Jess’s way.  Of course, this is not exactly the best way to maintain a low profile.  Suddenly, he is on Cro-Magnon drug dealer Waylon’s radar, in a bad way.  Everyone else around him is also acting rather suspiciously, but Moon is not so quick on the up-take.

Shot has a number of moody and atmospheric scenes that work quite well, but the tension always dissipates rather than growing and compounding.  Perhaps the greatest problem is its dubious premise.  An experienced hunter would never fire off the reckless shot that ignites this film.  Someone like Moon, who has been hunting longer than Rosenthal has been making movies, knows never to pull the trigger unless you are absolutely certain of what you have in your sites.

Still, Rockwell is convincingly slow-witted yet simultaneously slow-burningly intense as Moon.  It is largely his work that will keep viewers invested in Shot, at least to some extent.  William H. Macy is rather amusing as Pitt, but he might as well be credited as a “special guest star.”  In contrast, the potentially interesting Jason Isaacs is completely wasted as Waylon, buried under a Wookie’s worth of greasy locks.

There are no big secrets or revelations in Shot, so despite some well executed bits of skullduggery, there is little suspense overall.  Basically, it is a bad idea to come between and drug dealer and his illicit cash.  Nor is it a winning strategy to pick a fight with an anti-social mountain man who lives and breathes hunting.  As a result, everyone learns something in Shot, except the audience, who come in way ahead of everyone on-screen.  Just sort of okay but not great, A Single Shot opens this Friday (9/20) in New York at the AMC Empire.

Hollow Crown: Shakespeare’s Henriad

The House of Plantagenet had a good run, but their dynasty would not last forever.  You can blame Richard II.  His fall and the rise of his Lancaster cousins provided ample inspiration for Shakespeare’s three king-four play cycle known as the Henriad.  Executive producer Sam Mendes and three of Britain’s leading stage directors adapted the Richard and Henry plays for television as The Hollow Crown (promo here), which premieres on PBS this Friday as part of the current season of Great Performances.

Richard II begins with the title monarch on the throne, but that may soon change.  Callous and erratic, Richard is a sad excuse for king.  Nonetheless, the nobility has maintained their loyalty.  Richard’s own actions will drive many lords into rebellion, starting with the precipitous banishment of Henry Bolingbroke.  When the King confiscates the estate of his late uncle, Bolingbroke’s father, John of Gaunt, he pushes the Earl of Northumberland and his associates into rebellious conspiracy.

A bit of a slow starter, Richard II might be the weakest link of the Crown.  However, it exceeds viewer expectations for one of the marquee Henriad highlights, when Patrick Stewart knocks John of Gaunt’s “This England” soliloquy out of the park.  The stout Rory Kinnear and David Morrissey also bring an appropriately Shakespearean physicality to Bolingbroke and Northumberland, respectively.  Unfortunately, Ben Whishaw’s sickly, petulant presence poorly serves the villainous Richard.  Even more problematic is Richard II director Rupert Goold’s depiction of the deposed tyrant through Christ-like imagery.

Bolingbroke is now Henry IV, but he plays more of a supporting role in the two plays that bear his name: Henry IV Parts 1 and 2.  The King has an heir to succeed him, but has little confidence in the free-spirited Prince Hal.  The future Henry V would rather carouse with the disreputable Sir John Falstaff than worry about affairs of state.

Succeeding Kinnear as Henry IV, Jeremy Irons gives one of his best performances in years, acutely conveying the burdens of guilt, command, and fatherhood.  Likewise, Tom Hiddleston relishes the roguishness of Prince Hal, while also convincingly growing in stature once Henry V ascends the throne.  As director of both parts of Henry IV, Richard Eyre makes amends for misfiring with The Other Man.  He seems to love Falstaff even more than Welles did, but Simon Russell Beale looks so haggard and dissipated as the jolly fellow, viewers will fear he might keel over, well before his character’s spirit is broken.

Renouncing his wild past, Henry V turns his attention towards France in the Henriad’s conclusion, which should particularly interest Francophiles because of the presence of Lambert Wilson as the King of France and Mélanie Thierry as his daughter, Princess Katherine.  Hiddleston’s courtship scene with Thierry has considerable charm, but Henry V director Thea Sharrock strangely underplays the St. Crispin’s Day speech, perhaps hoping to avoid comparison with Branagh’s rendition.

Shot on some notably picturesque locations, Hollow Crown opens up Shakespeare quite cinematically.  While there is a considerable editorial hand at work, the language is never dumbed down.  It is a smart way to present the Bard on television, with discrete productions that still have the continuity of a mini-series.  The all-star cast should be of particular interest to fans of Downton Abbey (due to the too briefly seen Michelle Dockery and Glen).  It is a great looking period piece, buttressed by a number of fine performances.  Recommended for patrons of classical theater and fans of British television, The Hollow begins this Friday (9/20) and continues for the next three Fridays on most PBS outlets nationwide.

TIFF ’13: Closed Curtain

For most filmmakers of his stature, bringing two films to the international festival circuit over the last three years would be considered reasonably prolific. For Jafar Panahi, who was sentenced to a twenty year filmmaking ban by the Islamist Iranian government, it is quite extraordinary.  Panahi has been awarded the Camera d’Or at Cannes, the Silver Bear for Best Director at Berlin, and the Sakharov Prize for Freedom of Thought.  Although he was not allowed to return to Berlin this year, he added to his list of accolades the Silver Bear for Best Script with his latest film, Closed Curtain (trailer here), co-directed by lead actor Kambozia Partovi, which screens again tomorrow as part of the 2013 Toronto International Film Festival.

A man arrives in a fashionable villa on the Caspian Sea.  The views are spectacular, but he immediately hangs heavy black fabric over the gauzy curtains, completely sealing the house off from the outside world’s prying eyes.  As a screenwriter and a dog owner, he has two strikes going against him.  Initially, he seems most concerned about Boy, his four legged companion.  The state just renewed its campaign against “unclean” “anti-Muslim” dogs, so the television news is filled with grisly images of secret pets that have been rounded up and killed by the police.  Yet, the screenwriter seems to carry his own distinctly personal secrets as well.

After shaving his head to alter his appearance, the man settles in to write his screenplay.  Much to his shock, his refuge is interrupted by a young man and his suicidal sister.  They claim they were chased by the police who raided their beach party, but their very presence troubles the screenwriter.  Could he have been so negligent he left the door open as they claim?

Panahi established his reputation with gritty proletarian dramas, filmed out in the real world, at street level. Sadly, films like The Circle (written by Partovi) are impossible for Panahi these days, so he has moved inside for intimate works, like his protest documentary This is Not a Film and his latest collaboration with Partovi.  In fact, the first two thirds of Curtain plays like an Iranian Pinter production.  As the screenwriter verbally spars with his unexpected guests, darkly unsettling questions emerge.  Just how did they breach his house and if she really is familiar with his case history, just what does that imply?

If viewers were not off-balance enough, Panahi himself walks into the third act, much like Rod Serling.  It seems the screenwriter and the sister are his characters.  They can observe Panahi tending to his mysteriously damaged beach house, but they cannot interact with him—at least not exactly.

There are pro’s and cons to the meta-turn Curtain takes.  In a way, Curtain becomes a fictionalized sequel of sorts to This is not a Film, picking up on its themes and frustrations.  The same sense of claustrophobia is present in Curtain, but it is expressed more acutely.  Frankly, the scenes in which the occupants hold their breath as the police scour around the deceptively darkened house are so effective it seems like a bit of a shame to shift away from that micro story and Partovi’s restrained but deeply powerful performance.

Panahi’s pet iguana Igi might be telegenic in Not a Film, but Boy the Dog is probably the best animal screen performer of the year.  If a distributor picks up Curtain (and somebody really ought to), his notices might rival that of Uggi in The Artist.  Still, there is no doubt Curtain is a profoundly serious film, expressing the themes of confinement and oppression that hold particularly meaning for Panahi, but also have resonance for a great many Iranian citizens at large.  Highly recommended, Closed Curtain screens again tomorrow night (9/15) as this year’s TIFF comes to a conclusion.

And While We Were Here: Now in Lifelike Color

The Camorra has not ruined all of Naples yet.  There are still some picturesque historic neighborhoods.  They will make a lovely backdrop for the scuttling of a marriage in Kat Coiro’s And While We Were Here (trailer here), which opens today in New York.

Right, this movie is in color.  Most are these days, but if you caught AWWWH on the festival circuit, you saw it in an arresting black-and-white, intended to evoke the look and vibe of classic Italian Neo-Realist films.  However, it is standard procedure to shoot in color and convert to black-and-white after the fact (even the had to be B&W The Artist followed this practice), so it was no great technical feat to revert back to color for its theatrical release.  DVD consumers will have the ability to chose, but considering everything is digital these days, why not let the audience decide before each screening?  It would be a little William Castle-ish, but it would be a real novelty.

Regardless, sun-drenched Naples looks lovely in the colorful AWWWH (which also picked up an additional article along the way).  Leonard is a handsome and accomplished viola player who has come to Naples for a high profile concert engagement.  His somewhat younger wife Jane is beautiful, but that’s about it.  Some unspoken tragedy weighs heavily on their marriage, but on their first night in Naples they try to get in the romantic Italian spirit.  Unfortunately, the very next morning, Leonard the wet blanket insists on going to the rehearsals he has committed to attend, leaving Jane at loose ends.

She wanders the streets, listening to her grandmother’s lusty audio diaries that she will supposedly incorporate into some sort of vague writing project, until she encounters Caleb. He looks like a local beach bum, but he is actually an American tourist gone native.  Caleb immediately gets ideas about Jane, but she temporarily holds him at bay.  Nonetheless, it is only a matter of time before she indulges.

There are two long established cinematic clichés that stick out like sore thumbs in AWWWH.  While men who cheat in movies are invariably portrayed as lecherous heels, adultery is almost always an act of New Age self-actualization for women like Jane.  If its good for the gander…? Perhaps even more problematic, when a young male romantic rival is a little light in the masculinity department, he is often given more tattoos than the general population of San Quentin.  Meet Caleb, who appears to have a heavy metal album cover inked on his chest. The idea that a womanly woman like Jane would castoff a manly man like Leonard in favor of an immature boy like Caleb is difficult to buy into, no matter how dysfunctional their marriage might be.

Again, it is all lovely to behold. Kate Bosworth is stunningly gorgeous as Jane, looking like a porcelain doll, but unfortunately giving her the personality to match.  There are a lot of longing stares in AWWWH that do not add up to much.  However, Iddo Goldberg nearly saves the day as Leonard.  His big confrontation scene with Bosworth is smartly written and scathingly honest.  It pops, while the rest of the film mostly ambles in the sun.

Arguably, the sum of the film’s parts is greater than its whole.  Whether in color or black-and-white, cinematographer Doug Chamberlain can certainly frame a striking image.  The classical score is also richly lush yet emotionally resonate, representing career best work from composer Mateo Messina.  Despite the sophisticated sights and sounds, as well as Goldberg’s powerful performance, AWWWH never rouses from its lethargy or overcomes the by-the-numbers elements of its familiar narrative.  Mildly recommended for those who love Italy and 1960’s Italian cinema, And While We Were Here opens today (9/13) in New York at the Cinema Village.

TIFF ’13: R100

Even though filming has not even begun on the questionable movie adaptation of Shades of Grey, Hitoshii Matsumoto has already mashed-up the S&M melodrama genre beyond human recognition.  From Japan, we have a cautionary, surreal meta-meta postmodern bondage conspiracy tale, while Hollywood is banking on a dude who wears grey ties.  How quaint.  In the mean time, Matsumoto subverts perversion throughout R100 (trailer here), which screens as part of the 2013 Toronto International Film Festival.

Takafumi Katayama is a drab and depressed working drone who needs to unwind a little.  He thinks he has found just the ticket when he joins a mysterious club for submissive men.  At first, he gets the release he is seeking when the black-clad women meet him at their scheduled rendezvouses to beat him about and smash his sushi rolls (that’s not a euphemism).  However, when they start showing up at his home and work, matters turn a distinctly charcoal shade of grey.

As each dominatrix escalates their encounters, Katayama starts to fear for his life and the safety of his young son and father-in-law.  Then things get really weird, but not do bother complaining about logical inconsistencies.  The film will provide that commentary itself.

Strictly speaking, there is no nudity or sex in R100, but it is absolutely, positively not for kids.  The title is a play on the Japanese motion picture rating system that could be roughly translated as NC-100 for American audiences—and not for nothing.  However, the film definitely seems to suggest you are begging for trouble if you go out looking for something on the deviant side of life.

Yet, R100 careens so defiantly over the top, it becomes a dicey business parsing its symbolic layers and potential take-away teachings.  If any of this film sounds problematic to you, then you should probably avoid R100 because there is way more of whatever it is than we’ve covered so far.  On the other hand, cult cinema connoisseurs looking for a new and distinctive head trip will find it here.  Imagine Eyes Wide Shut transported to the world of Quentin Dupieux’s Rubber and you will start to get the idea.

Nao Omori perfectly anchors the film as the existentially put-upon Katayama.  Just looking at him sort of makes you want to smack him alongside the head.  However, he handles the character’s strange evolution with understated power.  As his son Arashi, Haruki Nishimoto distinguishes himself an unusually engaging young actor.  Fortunately, his classmates will not be able to see R100 for a while and hopefully he will not have to take much taunting over it in later years.

R100 pushes the envelope, but it never skitters into irredeemably disturbing territory.  Indeed, at some point the game-playing ends and the macro insanity takes over.  Although decidedly one-sided, there is also some decent fight choreography in the first act.  Recommended for exclusively adventurous viewers (but rather forcefully for them), R100 screens again today (9/13) and tomorrow (9/14) as part of this year’s TIFF.

Abstract Noir: The Last Time I Saw Macao

It’s the Portugueseness.  Macao seems to exist in a state outside of time and geography, serving as a perpetual cultural crossroads for tourists and migrant workers.  It is the perfect place for a film noir, precisely like von Sternberg’s Macao.  Despite their references to Jane Russell’s character, the approach of co-directors João Pedro Rodrigues & João Rui Guerra da Mata is radically dissimilar.  Narrative is something that happens outside our field of vision throughout The Last Time I Saw Macao (trailer here), which opens tomorrow in New York.

As the film commences, a transvestite night club performer lip-synchs “You Kill Me,” Russell’s big musical number from said Hollywood programmer.  Get a good look at Candy, because she is the first and last character to be seen in LTISM.  Instead, the Joãos use voice-over narration, overheard phone calls, and disembodied dialogue to tell their tale of post-colonial intrigue.

The narrator, “Guerra da Mata,” grew up in Macao, but spent the entirety of his adult life in Portugal.  He has finally returned home in response to a call for help from his expat friend Candy.  She has always been attracted to the wrong sort of men, but this is a particularly bad case.  Assuming she has fallen in with some sort of criminal gang, the unseen protagonist becomes entangled with a Chinese Zodiac cult and a caper involving a strange birdcage (not unlike Pulp Fiction’s suitcase).

That might sound like manic b-movie material, but J.P.R. & J.R.G.M. banish all the action off-screen.  Instead, they give the audience an impressionistic tour of Macao, via a series of darkly evocative Ozu-esque pillow shots.  Fortunately, they have a keen eye for visuals.  Many individual sequences are quite striking, but eighty-five minutes of such self-referential, self-consciously elliptical filmmaking gets rather wearying over time.  Frankly, Rodrigues & Guerra da Mata’s abstract style of film noir would arguably work better as a short film, which has been the form of their previous collaborations.

Given its noir elements and influences as well as its genre-defying gamesmanship, LTISM will probably appeal to Godard fans.  While its narrative is considerably more abstract than the French auteur’s early films, it is downright plot heavy compared to his recent work.  Conceptually, it is quite intriguing, but it remains an intellectual viewing experience rather than an emotional engaging one.  Recommended exclusively for devotees of Godard and Robbe-Grillet, The Last Time I Saw Macao opens tomorrow (9/13) in New York at the Elinor Bunin Munro Film Center.

Herb & Dorothy 50x50: Minimalist Art for All

Herb and Dorothy Vogel might be the most significant American art collectors since Albert C. Barnes. Of course, the minimalist and conceptual art they collected was worlds removed from the Barnes Foundation’s early modern and impressionist masterpieces.  The Vogels also had very different ideas regarding the fate of their collection.  Through the National Gallery of Art, the Vogels launched an initiative to donate fifty works of art to a fitting museum in every state.  Filmmaker Megumi Sasaki revisits the Vogels, documenting their remarkable philanthropic undertaking in Herb & Dorothy 50x50 (trailer here), which opens this Friday at the IFC Center.

In her previous doc, Sasaki told the Vogels’ origin story.  Since the 1960’s, the Vogels lived off her librarian’s salary, using his postal worker’s pay to acquire their collection.  Early adopters of minimalism, the Vogels were the first collector of many cutting edge artists.  They only bought what they could afford and somehow fit in their one bedroom apartment.

Almost reaching 5,000 pieces in size, the Vogels eventually decided to bestow their collection upon the NGA, but given the obvious limitations of gallery space, they ultimately agreed to the Fifty Works for Fifty States project.  Representative Vogel Collections in miniature would be donated to regional museums that would otherwise be hard pressed to acquire such works.

As the Vogels’ NGA advisor points out, there is precedent for such a wide-ranging gift to the nation’s museums.  The old masters collection of five-and-dime store magnate Samuel H. Kress now resides in forty-one states, which is not the Vogels’ full fifty, but is still pretty impressive.

Much of Sasaki’s follow-up doc grants the Vogels their victory lap, traveling with them to openings in several states.  While these sequences can get a tad repetitive, it is intriguing to see how each museum engages with the work in their Vogel packages.  For instance, the Hawaiian pieces appear to have a particularly high degree of white space, which is a challenge for both curators and visitors, yet they have been notably industrious building programming around their collection.

Sadly, viewers also sense the realities of time and age for the Vogels that ultimately gives the film its narrative structure.  Somehow though, the tone never feels maudlin, paying tribute rather jerking tears.  Given the extent of the film dedicated to the Fifty for Fifty project, the appeal of Sasaki’s second Vogel doc might be largely limited to fans of the first.  Nonetheless, if viewers are interested, 50x50 is the only game in town, executed by Sasaki with scrupulous sensitivity and a good measure of style (quite so by documentary industry standards).  In fact, David Majzlin upbeat score propels the proceedings along rather nicely.

By following the Vogels, Sasaki gives the audience a pleasant tour of American fine art museums that are often overlooked because they happen to be in fly-over country.  She also effectively showcases the Vogel pieces, conveying the breadth and diversity of the collection.  One of the more emotionally satisfying art docs, Herb & Dorothy 50x50 is recommended for art connoisseurs and fans of the original Herb & Dorothy when it opens tomorrow (9/13) in New York at the IFC Center.

NewFest ’13: The Rugby Player

Arguably, he is the best known passenger of the most tragically famous commercial flight in American history.  He was one of the heroes (yes, that is the appropriate word) who sacrificed their lives to sabotage their hijackers’ heinous plan for United flight 93.  Yet, the example of Mark Bingham’s life continues to inspire Americans, beyond the fateful events culminating in that Pennsylvania field.  Not content to let one moment define Bingham, Scott Gracheff presents a comprehensive and highly personal documentary portrait of the increasingly symbolic man throughout The Rugby Player (trailer here), which fittingly screens this solemn day as part of NewFest 2013 in New York.

Bingham and close friend Todd Sarner (who served as Rugby’s technical advisor) often had video cameras on-hand to record life’s highlights and lowlights as they happened.  As a result, Gracheff had a wealth of candid footage of Bingham, from his middle school years up until his final weeks.  Raised by his single mother, Alice Hoagland, Bingham was a dutiful son, who always tried to shield her from the worst of his meatheaded student pranks.  In high school, he took to rugby like a fish to water, playing in leagues all his life.  During college, he was a reserve on Cal’s championship team and was elected president of his fraternity.  He was also gay, which is why Rugby screens as part of NewFest.

As an enthusiastic high school, college, and club rugby player, Bingham has become a role model for athletic GLTB community members, both in and out of the closet.  As a supporter of John McCain’s 2000 presidential campaign, he has also become an inspiration to Log Cabin Republicans (a fact that does not seem to interest Gracheff much). Regardless, the film conscientiously maintains an intimate focus on Bingham and Hoagland, who tirelessly advocates for increased airline safety and GLTB rights.  As a result, audiences will feel they have a very real sense of who Bingham was as an individual.

Indeed, it is critically important to document the stories of 9-11 on a personal level.  Watching Rugby Player will help viewers understand the pain resulting from Bingham’s senseless murder.  Then multiply that by over 3,000.

Gracheff mostly but not entirely avoids current political controversies, while handling Bingham’s still grieving friends and family with appropriate sensitivity.  Although unjustly cut short, Bingham’s life was well led, easily sustaining the eighty minute documentary.  Stylistically straight forward and genuinely touching, The Rugby Player is recommended for those who insist on remembering and paying tribute to the lives lost on September 11^th.  The clear high point of this year’s NewFest, it screens tonight (9/11) at the Walter Reade Theater.

Harry Dean Stanton—Partly Fiction

He has some of the coolest credits ever, including Alien, Escape from New York, Red Dawn, Repo Man, and Wild at Heart.  However, appearing as himself is a role he is not so comfortable with.  As a result, Sophie Huber’s documentary treatment, Harry Dean Stanton: Partly Fiction (trailer here) is a rather impressionistic portrait that opens tomorrow in New York.

Stanton is not the sort of fellow to sit down in front of a camera and commence name-dropping, but Huber, his friend and colleague, knew that coming in.  Foregoing the conventional approach, she scored at least one coup.  Up until now, Stanton declined offers to record his traditional vocals and harmonica playing, but she was able to capture many of his intimate performances.  Frankly, that alone should constitute a respectable cinematic legacy for Huber.

Indeed, Stanton’s voice is truly mesmerizing on old time favorites like “Blue Bayou,” “Blue Moon,” “Just a Closer Walk With Thee,” and the positively eerie closing rendition of “Danny Boy.”  Stanton’s clear affinity for songs of loneliness and loss marries up perfectly with Huber’s portrait of a haunted backwoods Zen master. 

Unfortunately, the scenes without music lack the same quiet power.  At times, Huber merely tries of soak up the ambiance of Stanton’s life, which gets a bit snoozy.  The lack of any standard biographical treatment also occasionally leads to frustration, as when Stanton off-handedly comments on the unforgettable wildness of his years living with Jack Nicholson and hanging with Marlon Brando.  Right, we can only imagine.

Huber incorporates some commentary from Stanton’s famous friends, perhaps most notably David Lynch, whom we see visiting with his chum.  She also includes some film clips, relying heavily on Wim Wenders’ Paris, Texas, openly inviting audiences to conflate Stanton with his pseudo breakout role.

There are few outright scoops in Fiction, aside from Stanton’s disclosure (now widely remarked upon) that he once dated Rebecca De Mornay, before she made Risky Business and got involved with Hollywood’s favorite Scientologist.  Who knew?  One gets a sense Stanton guards a treasure trove of such revelations, but Huber never tries to dig them out.  Still, the film has a stylishly evocative look, thanks to cinematographer Seamus MacGarvey’s striking black and white sequences.

Huber might leave many of Stanton’s fans scratching their heads, but at least they will know their man can sing.  Periodically beautiful, Harry Dean Stanton: Partly Fiction is for diehard fans of Stanton and those who appreciate Americana folk songs when it inexplicably opens tomorrow (9/11, probably the last date anyone would want to go to the movies) in New York at the Village East.