Macedonian Film Festival: I am from Titov Veles

Many Communist-era industrial behemoths are still around, continuing to plague the environment in former Warsaw Pact countries. Macedonian’s Titov-Veles, now known simply as Veles, is one such city dominated by a carcinogenic white elephant. Its dreary backdrop dominates Teona Strugar Mitevska’s I am from Titov Veles (trailer here), which opened the Macedonian Film Festival last night.

The blight of Veles accentuates the bleak desperation of three sisters’ lives. The eldest Slavica is a recovering heroin addict looking for economic security. Sapho, the middle sister, is obsessed with immigrating out of Macedonia. Deeply affected by their mother’s desertion and father’s subsequent death, the youngest, Afrodita, desperately clings to her older sisters. Since their mother left, she has not spoken a word out loud, and might even have difficulty fully distinguishing fantasy from reality.

Mitevska portrays a rootless Macedonian, where jobs are scarce and immigration information is discussed in much the same way New Yorkers trade real estate anecdotes. Given the tremendous continuing human and environmental costs of what the press notes call “forceful socialist industrialization,” it is understandable Afrodita’s sisters are looking for a way out. However, when they find apparent escape from the doldrums of Veles, they leave behind Afrodita, in much the manner their mother did to the family years before. Ill-prepared for life on her own, Afrodita’s perceptions and judgments becomes ever more questionable. Likewise, Mitevska’s narrative becomes increasingly subjective, seemingly giving Afrodita’s fantasies equal footing with ostensive reality.

In other words, Titov is most definitely a festival picture. Unfailingly patient, Mitevska lets her distinctive visuals unfold at a very deliberate pace. Often we watch Afrodita from odd angles, observing events at ankle level or over her shoulder. At other times, we see her fully exposed during moments of such vulnerability, the film feels intrusive. Mitevska’s sister and producer, Labina Mitevska, carries the entire emotional weight of the film as the lost Afrodita. She is quite convincing, holding up well under the scrutiny of director Mitevska’s unforgiving lens.

Somehow Mitevska has crafted a film that is both impressionistic and naturalistic. While casting a critical eye on contemporary Macedonian culture, particularly the gender attitudes of the brutish men the sisters encounter, Titov is a very personal story and a demanding film. Although it might not sound like a Chamber of Commerce promotional film, Macedonia has selected it as its official best foreign language film submission for the upcoming Academy Awards, in hopes of repeating Macedonia’s success in 1994 with the nomination of Milcho Manchevski’s Before the Rain, which will close the festival with a special screening Sunday. The Macedonian Film Festival continues through the weekend, and Titov will screen again in New York this coming January at MoMA.

The Betrayal

What happens when America abandons her allies to certain military defeat and subsequent reprisals? Suddenly this is a timely question. Before making any rash withdrawals, the incoming administration should study past examples. One such case study occurred in Laos following America’s military exit from Southeast Asia. Its dramatic consequences for the Phrasavath family are documented in The Betrayal (trailer here), opening in New York this Friday.

Filmed over a twenty-three year period by director Ellen Kuras and her primary subject and credited co-director Thavisouk Phrasavath, Betrayal captures just about every trial and tribulation on film as it happens to the family. During the Viet Nam War, Phrasavath’s father was Royal Laotian officer working with American military advisors. Following the American departure and the Communist Pathet Lao conquest of Laos, the elder Phrasavath was arrested and sent to re-education camp, which was considered tantamount to a death sentence. Facing an uncertain future as the family of a declared enemy of the state, the Phrasavaths sought refuge in Thailand before eventually making their way to America.

The title could refer to any number of betrayals in the Phrasavath family’s story. It can certainly refer to the American government turning its back on an ally in the fight against Communist expansion, as well as the inhospitable welcome they received upon reaching this country. However, there are very personal betrayals within the family as well. For a time, Kuras’s co-director seemed to turn his back on family responsibilities, joining a gang and challenging his mother’s authority. The Phrasavath matriarch also wrestles with her own guilt, having left behind her two youngest daughters as a result of miscommunication in their haste to leave. However, the greatest personal betrayal comes following the film’s third act surprise.

Remarkably, either Kuras or Phrasavath happened to have a camera rolling as nearly every family crisis came to a head. However, the film is not so diligent filling in the gaps in-between. For instance, how Phrasavath was able to return to Laos for the final scenes is never explained. He just seems to show up. Yet, for a shot-on-the-fly documentary Betrayal’s production values are quite high, even featuring a score composed by Howard Shore, known for his work on small films like Martin Scorsese’s The Departed and The Lord of the Rings trilogy.

The Betrayal is an American Documentary/POV co-production and frankly PBS is probably the right home for it. Most ticket buyers (outside of festival audiences) will likely find it better suited for PBS broadcast on POV or Frontline, than as a full-fledged theatrical feature. Still, Phrasavath has a dramatic story, and it would be great to see him get a book deal out of it all. It opens in New York on Friday at the IFC Film Center.

La Guardia in the Eye of the Beholder

How did Mayor Bloomberg celebrate his inevitable victory overturning the term-limit measure New Yorkers twice approved at the ballot box? Instead of going to Disneyland, he went to Tony Lo Bianco’s one-man show La Guardia. The whole three-termer thing must have appealed to him. For the record, LaGuardia demurred on a fourth term, cautioning mayors tend to get “bossy.” One can see what he meant. You can also see Mayor La Guardia, as personified by Lo Bianco, at the Dicapo Opera Theatre, quite Off-Broadway on Manhattan’s fashionable Upper Eastside.

Distilled from Lo Bianco’s previous one-man productions down to a manageable hour and a half, performed without intermission, La Guardia is a respectful treatment of the progressive Republican icon. The year is ostensibly 1945 and La Guardia is packing up his office on his last day as Mayor, a process nicely suited to prompting reminiscences. Essentially, we hear the highlights of La Guardia’s public career, primarily his terms in Congress, service in WWI, and of course his years in Gracie Manor.

Lo Bianco did his research, acknowledging La Guardia’s little known Jewish heritage. As revealed in Hava Volterra’s documentary Tree of Life, he was distantly related to her Jewish Italian Volterra family-line that included Luigi Luzzatti, the first Jewish Prime Minister ever elected in Europe, and the mystical kabbalist Ramhal (none of which is in the play). Explaining the social pecking-order of turn of the century New York, Lo Bianco’s La Guardia tells the audience as both an Italian and a Jew, he started his career as a third-class citizen. Actually, he could have added Republican, making him a fourth-class New Yorker. In truth, La Guardia shows a better than average understanding of New York’s strange political ins-and-outs. Particularly, on-target was a crack about the “Republican deadbeat district leaders and club loafers,” he had to endure during his early campaigns.

To his credit, Lo Bianco unequivocally portrays Tammany Hall as the corrupt Democrat machine it was. However, he chooses to emphasize La Guardia, the provider of social services and supporter of FDR, rather than La Guardia, the pro-war hawk and crusader against Democrat corruption. Yet, when he covered the WWII years, La Guardia’s words had a ringing resonance for today, at one point warning listeners of his radio broadcast, they can indeed criticize their government in a time of war, but should remember that our enemies are listening as well.

Lo Bianco clearly loves the Little Flower like a brother, but that does not always make for the best theater. We never hear La Guardia holding a grudge or speaking a word in anger against anyone, except the Corruptocrats of Tammany. One-person shows are inherently limited, but La Guardia feels particularly stagy at times. However, Lo Bianco is quite effective channeling La Guardia, getting a standing ovation from an audience that included many who probably remember the great Mayor personally. La Guardia is safe theater and a reasonably diverting history lesson. It runs at the Dicapo through Saturday the 22nd.

Jazz Therapy: Dedicated to Earl May

Jazz Therapy Vol. 1: Smile
By Gene Bertoncini & Roni Ben-Hur
Motema Music

It came as a shock when the great jazz bassist Earl May had died in early January. I had recently heard him perform at a Jazz Foundation holiday event, where he looked and sounded great. Still a vital force on the New York scene, as it turns out, he was planning a new recording with his frequent musical collaborator, guitarist Roni Ben-Hur. The musicians often played together in the lobby of the Englewood Hospital in New Jersey, as part of a program sponsored the Jazz Foundation of America. Their intent was to produce a duo CD that would benefit Englewood’s Dizzy Gillespie Memorial Fund, which provides health services to jazz musicians in need. As a tribute to May, Ben-Hur has recorded the benefit CD they envisioned, with acoustic guitarist Gene Bertoncini joining the electric player for a set of jazz duets entitled Jazz Therapy Vol. 1: Smile, produced by Ben-Hur’s label and the Jazz Foundation of America.

As befits its name, Therapy is highly accomplished, but soothing jazz that would not sound out of place during a performance at Englewood. Given its lyrics, which might not be ideal for hospital audiences, one wonders if “Killing You Softly” ever made their Englewood set list. However, as the opening track, it is certainly indicative of the guitarists’ laid back camaraderie and very hip interplay.

The perilous title track, Charlie Chaplin’s “Smile,” often lends itself to overly maudlin interpretations. Although Bertoncini and Ben-Hur are true to the original sentiment, they invest their rendition with a strong underlying rhythm and some tasteful flourishes, which prevent it from descending into the lachrymose.

While the entire CD is the tribute to May, some tracks are more direct in their reference to the bassist. Ira Gitler’s liner notes suggest the Chaplin standard was a reference to May’s own smiling countenance (seen pictured inside the CD digipack). Dizzy Gillespie and Ray Brown’s “That’s Earl, Brother,” though not originally composed in May’s honor, is nice twofer tribute both the bassist and the trumpeter-composer who started the jazz medical fund at Englewood. Naturally, it is the fleetest burner of the session, with Ben-Hur taking the lead on the bop lines.

Bertoncini in turn comes to the fore on a pair of his elegant originals, “You Are a Story” and the concluding “Set Blue,” a sophisticated reworking of Toots Thieleman’s “Bluesette.” In addition to being a friend of JFA, Bertoncini is also well known to the St. Peter’s community (the New York Lutheran church known for its jazz services and memorials), where his sensitive style is always appropriate. Together he and Ben-Hur create some intimate but artful jazz, obviously in heart-felt tribute to May, Englewood, and the Jazz Foundation. While its relative consistency in tone and tempo would be a drawback for other sessions, it fits Motema’s “Jazz Therapy” concept, which they plan to carry forward with future releases.

As a good karma bonus, proceeds of Therapy go to a worthy cause. The good work of Englewood’s longtime partner, the Jazz Foundation of America is also always worth reviewing. Led by the tireless Wendy Oxenhorn, JFA has been a life-line for jazz musicians in dire straits—artists without insurance or pensions, who were never properly compensated for their work. JFA has been there to forestall evictions and to provide emergency medical treatment (with their partners at Englewood). When Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, their caseload went from the hundreds to the thousands. You can learn more about the Foundation at their website and see NY1’s report on Ben-Hur’s performances at Englewood in the newly rechristened Earl May Corner here.

Margaret Mead: Alone in Four Walls

Call it the school for Jean Valjeans. Boy after boy incarcerated in a Russian reformatory school tells a similar story—sentenced for two to three years for stealing jam or other common foodstuffs. There is also the boy serving three years for triple homicide. If that sounds grossly unjust, the punch-line of German director Alexandra Westmeier’s documentary Alone in Four Walls (trailer here) is that most of the young charges of the remote Ural reform school do not want to leave. Alone, which screened last night at the Margaret Mead Film & Video Festival, is an unusual issue-oriented documentary, because it refrains from bludgeoning the audience with its righteous.

Artfully filmed by Westmeier’s cinematographer husband Inigo, Alone focuses exclusively on the children of this facility, giving the supervising adults only incidental screen time. As we first meet the charges, they explain for the camera their starter-prison tattoos. However, as they tell their stories, they do not seem to be bad kids. Although the film begins with a scared new arrival distraught because he was not allowed to say goodbye to his mother, most of the residents have clearly adapted well to their new environment. After all, it offers them things they did not have at home: namely structure and regular meals.

In a rare turn of events, the Westmeiers’ post-screening Q&A was actually illuminating. The director explained the seemingly disproportionate sentences for pilfering food were often handed down as a way to get the children out of a dangerous situation, giving them a chance to finish school. While it might speak well of Russia’s juvenile justice system, it is a pretty damning indictment of the country’s overall social support system.

One of the few adults we hear from is an alumnus of the institution, who recalls his time there as the best years of his childhood. Yet, when he sought out his closest mates from his time there, one was already dead and another was back behind bars. It turns out recidivism is a brutal 91% for the school’s graduates. Westmeier blames the lack of social services for such at risk youth. The lawless example of the Russia government itself also would not exactly instill good citizenship either.

Westmeier’s approach works because she resists the urge to explicitly tell viewers what they should think about it all. Whether you fully share Westmeier’s sympathies for the children or not, Alone certainly takes viewers to a remote corner of Russian they have never seen before.

Margaret Mead: Paper Cannot Wrap Up Embers

About five or six years ago, Cambodia was the new in place for hipster expats. I hope this wasn’t the attraction for them. Life is brutish and short for Phnom Penh prostitutes. Drug addiction, sexually transmitted diseases, and unwanted pregnancies are facts of life for prostitutes everywhere, but abusive western johns are the greatest occupational hazards endured by the women featured in Rithy Panh’s Paper Cannot Wrap Up Embers, which screened as part of the 32nd Margaret Mead Film & Video Festival.

On the surface, Embers is something of a departure for Panh, a Cambodian filmmaker based in France, whose past films have documented the human misery caused by the Khmer Rouge. However, Embers is actually more closely related to his past films than is immediately apparent. At least one of the featured women was forced into a life of prostitution after the UN incompetently repatriated her family back into Cambodia, after taking sanctuary in a Thai refugee camp. Heckuva job, UN. NGO’s do not emerge looking much better. At one point, two women discuss one do-gooder group that offers money for prostitutes’ funeral expenses, but as they note, no help while they are still alive.

Panh’s film is a tough viewing experience. You see the physical ravages of A.I.D.S. and drug use on the prostitutes sharing a Phnom Penh flat. They live a joyless existence toiling for a madam the audience never sees. The only laughter of the film comes at the expense of the Madam’s useless “tout,” who shares the women’s flat and doles out their meager payments.

Clearly, Panh has established a high degree of trust with the women, because we see them in some very intimate situations, speaking frankly about the mistakes which consigned them to such lives. However, nothing of their working lives is shown, aside from the proverbial street walking. When they speak of their encounters, it is only of the dangers they face. As a result, there is no explicit material in the film, aside from the plight faced by the women, which is truly obscene.

This is a hard viewing experience. Panh’s camera never blinks, showing all the black eyes and lesions that afflict the women of Embers. The greatest shame for western audiences is the repeated fear expressed by the women of their western “clients.” Again, a wary eye should fall on those hipster expats. Embers illustrates how tragedy compounds over time. It is a heartbreaking film that leaves viewers feeling helpless.

Margaret Mead: Umbrella

Evidently, there are many ways to live lives of quiet desperation in China. While they vary in degree of desperation, quiet is definitely the operative word in Du Haibin’s ruminative documentary Umbrella, which screened today at the American Museum of Natural History’s Margaret Mead Film & Video Festival.

The various figures seen in Umbrella are loosely tied together by tenuous connections to a Guangdong factory of said merchandise. As a parallel theme, each stop in an umbrella’s journey is put in the context of recent Chinese migration from the countryside to urban centers. Of course, this is a dramatic contradiction of historic Chinese Communist propaganda, which celebrated peasants as the revolutionary ideal.

Now the unofficial message seems to be: why stay on the farm when there is money to be made in China’s go-go economy. However, nobody is getting rich working at the eponymous Guangdong factory. Workers are paid piece-meal at posted rates broken-down to fractions of the Yuan. However, the toiling umbrella assemblers still appear to be surrounded by slogans extolling the virtues of labor, which are often translated in the film’s subtitles.

Ultimately, Guangdong umbrellas get into the hands of consumers who represent different strategies for making it in the “new” China. Rather than places of liberal arts learning, universities appear to be cranking out graduates for the sole purpose of competing in a fierce job market. Naturally, the army is always hiring, but Umbrella shows the Maoist tradition of public self-criticism rituals is still alive and well there.

Umbrella shows a lot of unhappy people, but it lacks a true narrative structure. When Du recognizes a good shot, he holds it interminably. He conveys a tactile sense of place as result of his ever so deliberate pacing. Truly, Du’s eye for composition is remarkable, but drive and focus are apparently not hallmarks of his style.

Preceding Umbrella was the thematically related ten-minute short Under Construction, directed by Zhenchen Liu. Using computer generated animation to recreate demolition sites it paints a picture of urban renewal out of control, in which wrecking crews function almost like protection gangs. Together they suggest the place of the individual in contemporary China remains tenuous at best. Although at times quite diffuse, Umbrella is a good festival programmer. Cineastes are likely to forgive its brooding pace for the sake of its earnestness. The Mead Festival continues at AMNH with screenings of documentaries on international cultures and the contemporary challenges they face, all day Sunday.

A French Christmas Tale

It’s time to get your Bah Humbug on, en Français. It might be the Christmas season, but there is little comfort and joy when the Vuillards get together. Instead it is family dysfunction of the highest order that comes to the fore in Arnaud Desplechin’s A Christmas Tale (trailer here), opening today in New York.

The Vuillards have issues. Ever since the oldest child Joseph died of cancer at age seven, the family dynamics have been out of kilter. Now the children are physically grown, but remain emotionally stunted. Holidays are an ordeal for everyone, but they have been spared the presence of the middle son Henri. After nearly bringing financial ruin on the Vuillards, his younger sister Elizabeth made good on his debts, but at the price of banishment from the family. Henri does not understand how he inspired such resentment, aside from nearly bankrupting the family and just being a complete louse in general.

However, Henri might hold a trump card. His mother Junon has been stricken by the same disease which killed his brother, and so far no family members have proved compatible bone marrow donors. With Faunia, his amused Jewish girlfriend in tow, Henri joins the family for a miserable Vuillard family Christmas and some blood tests at the local hospital.

Tale’s trailer is somewhat misleading. While there is dark comedy, most of the lines in the preview which sound like jokes are said in deadly earnest. This is a largely loveless family of hopelessly incompatible people. Junon the matriarch was too vain and disinterested to love her children. The cold-blooded Elizabeth is incapable of forgetting her grievances. Her son Paul seems to have inherited the recessive underachieving genes which surfaced his black sheep uncle. For his part, Henri takes perverse pleasure in mismanaging his life, while Faunia finds the spectacle of it all amusing. Only their sensitive patriarch Abel shows any kind of capacity for familial love. We know he is a man of substance and depth from the music he studies and enjoys, including jazz compositions by Charles Mingus and Cecil Taylor.

Desplechin’s domestic train wreck is all too believable, particularly because it resists explaining every little behavioral quirk. People hold grudges and blow each other off for reasons that remain obscure. That’s life. Catherine Deneuve is perfectly cast as Junon, the Mother of the Year. As Henri, Mathieu Almaric deftly portrays a multi-faceted character who is simultaneously charming, boorish, self-destructive, and passive aggressive. Not exactly comic relief, as Faunia, Emmanuelle Devos effectively provides an ironic vantage point on Vuillard family reunion.

Tale is a smart drama, but it is about as much a Christmas film as Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut. The holiday is an obligation for the Vuillards, not a celebration. While Tale might sound depressing, Desplechin strings together one fascinating scene after another, making it’s nearly two and a half hour running seem much quicker. It opens today in the City, at the IFC Film Center and the Lincoln Plaza.

Pan Asian Rep: Shogun Macbeth

Twelfth Century Japan and Eleventh Century Scotland were not totally dissimilar. Both were feudal societies with their own supernatural lore and the occasional outbreak of swordplay. Transferring Shakespeare’s Macbeth from the Medieval Highlands to Kamakura Era Japan actually makes far more sense than most radical setting changes for Shakespeare’s plays (particularly the seemingly compulsive need to place every tragedy in a thinly veiled Nazi Germany). In fact, Shogun Macbeth has already proved successful for the Pan Asian Repertory Theatre, so as part of their Masterpiece Cycle, they have revived their production for a limited run, which officially opened last night.

Shame on anyone who needs the plot of Macbeth explained to them. Happily, Pan Asian Rep follows the original Shakespeare fairly closely, making a few linguistic and stylistic changes here and there. Instead of a dagger before Macbeth, he sees a shoto. They have also incorporated some traditional Japanese motifs, like the Biwa Hoshi, or “lute priest,” who serves as Shakespeare’s narrator. However, Macbeth still opens with the three witches (here called Yojo) foretelling Macbeth’s ascension to the throne (Shogunate), stoking his ambition and thereby setting in motion a bloody chain of events.

As Lady/Fujin Macbeth, Rosanne Ma is fantastic, subtly hinting she might be a little off, well before her “out damned spot” mental breakdown. She is completely believable and frankly sometimes creepy as the manipulative wife, goading Macbeth into murder. Kaipo Schwab seems to play Macbeth as a brutish savage, but given the body count he racks up, it is totally credible interpretation, which he carries off well. The formerly Scottish Play has a reputation for humbling actors, but here the two primary leads consistently rise to the challenge of the play whose name they cannot speak.

Designed by Charlie Corcoran, the simple set and prominent Buddha backdrop are visually dramatic, equally compatible with the scenes of supernatural mystery and the Kurosawa-esque samurai clashes. The Yojo/witches effectively play on Japanese archetypes, specifically the supernatural woman with preternaturally long tresses, accentuating the play’s uncanny themes. While Michael G. Chin’s fight sequences and Yoko Hyun’ elegant tea services firmly root the production in its new setting.

Briskly directed by Ernest Abuba, Macbeth is just over two svelte hours, not including the intermission. It makes for a quite manageable dose of high culture wrapped in a very entertaining package, and featuring a particularly noteworthy performance by Ma. Pan Asian’s satisfying revival runs at the Julia Miles Theater through December 7th.

Chinese Manga: Wild Animals

Wild Animals v. 1: Key Trafficker
By Song Yang
Yen Press Manga OT

Although Jiang Wen’s film In the Heat of the Sun received little western distribution, it evidently made quite an impression on those who saw it. Reportedly a favorite of Quentin Tarantino, Sun (trailer here) was considered relatively apolitical by western critics. However, according to Time, Jiang still had the Devil’s own time with the government censor, even offering the bureaucrat a role in the film to divide his attention. Jiang’s film also attracted the attention of Song Yang, who adapted it in Manhua form (the Chinese equivalent of Manga) as Wild Animals, the first volume of which is now available in translation for American audiences.

The great irony of Wild Animals is that Chinese parents’ lives became so regimented during the Cultural Revolution they were largely unable to supervise their children, who ran wild in the streets Lord of the Flies style. At least that is how Ma Xiaojun remembers his childhood in flashback. However, we soon learn he is not a reliable narrator.

Although Ma professes love for his soldier father and a desire to follow in his footsteps, he is a deliberate underachiever in school. His circle of friends could be considered a gang if they were more ambitious. Ma seems a little off, but initially not alarmingly so. Fascinated with keys, he often uses his collection of acquired cast-offs to break into homes—not to steal, simply for the thrill of the invasion. During one such foray, he falls in love with the picture of Mi Lan, a beautiful but somewhat older girl, much like Dana Andrews in Laura. Ma eventually meets the object of his desire, but reality does not seem to live up to his fantasy ideals.

While it might sound like a carefree coming-of-age story, there is a constant menace lurking beneath the surface of Animals. Occasionally, the tenor of the Cultural Revolution peeks through, as when students find themselves berated for the simple act of wearing lipstick. Though ostensibly revered, his father is a severe disciplinarian. In turn, Ma seems capable of shocking acts of violence, which he exaggerates all the more to impress the under whelmed Mi Lan. Perhaps Animals represents the chain of abuse being passed down from Communist Party to soldier and onto son, who eventually lashes out at those weaker than he.

The first volume implies his frustration with Mi Lan will lead Ma to commit a horrendous crime. Indeed, he prefaces the story with the lament: “It wasn’t until I was almost thirty, after a lot of effort, that I was finally able to lead a decent life.” (p. 6) However, it is hard to make hard and fast conclusions about Ma’s story, because his narration is intentionally cryptic.

Song Yang’s art can be striking, particularly when rendering the ethereal beauty of Mi Lan. On the other hand, though it might be a conscious strategy, his depictions of complex events are often difficult to discern. Dreamlike and mysterious is fine, but confusing can be a problem.

Most likely all will be revealed when Volume Two is published in May 2009. Often compelling if imperfectly executed, the first installment opens up some doors to very dark places, during a very dark time.

Les Blank: Blues and Cajun Music

Blues, roots music, garlic, and eccentric German directors are the stuff of inspiration for documentarian Les Blank. Probably best known for his documentaries featuring Werner Herzog, Blank’s second film was in fact a Dizzy Gillespie short. A wide cross-section of his filmography screens at the Film Forum for a week-long retrospective, starting this Friday.

Blank’s initial breakthrough documentary was The Blues Accordin’ to Lightnin’ Hopkins, but he will probably always be remembered for his Werner Herzog films. The twenty-minute short Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe is pretty much what it sounds like—basically Fear Factor for the art-house set. As bizarre motivation, the established Herzog bet Errol Morris he would eat his shoe if the aspiring filmmaker ever finished his first film. Obviously it worked, and Blank was there when Herzog lived up to his part of the bargain. (If you’re wondering, he cooked it first, with garlic.) Soon thereafter, Blank would document the turbulent making of Herzog’s Fitzcarraldo, in Burden of Dreams (trailer here). It was a process often described as well above and far beyond the chaos of Apocalypse Now.

However, some of the coolest films in the series relate to various forms of American folk music. Blank returned to the blues in 1971 for A Well Spent Life, a profile of Texas country bluesman Mance Lipscomb. Unlike the rest of his blues revival colleagues, Lipscomb was “discovered” in the 1960’s, not “rediscovered.” He made his recording debut on Arhoolie, the blues enthusiast label in 1960. Oddly enough, he would also cut an album for Sinatra’s Reprise label, which not surprisingly, quickly went out of print.

Well Spent rather starkly captures the life of a sharecropper who just happened to be a world renowned blues artist. Recent revisionist blues scholarship argues many blues collectors have idolized individuals who really did not consider themselves musicians. Playing the blues for their own enjoyment or an extra dollar here and there, they happened to be captured on songhunters’ field recordings and from there, legends ballooned. In a way, Well Spent lends some credence to those arguments. Clearly, Lipscomb spent far more time eking out a hardscrabble existence as a sharecropper than singing the blues. However, there is an undeniable, almost archetypal appeal to Lipscomb’s blues. Often seen performing backlit by sunsets, Well Spent also features some of Blank’s most attractive photography.

While his Lipscomb film is a mid-sized forty-four minutes, Blank also made some relatively brief blues films, like the five minute Cigarette Blues. Starring Sonny Rhodes, also from Texas but based in the Bay Area, Cigarette is an unusual “PSA” produced by the Dallas Museum of Art. Featuring Rhodes’ smoking (if you will) slide guitar and a cigarette-butt sculpture created by an artist recently deceased from lung cancer, it is one of the hipper anti-smoking film.

Blank did his undergraduate work at Tulane, so his affection for Cajun and Creole culture should come as no surprise. The full length documentary J'ai Été Au Bal gives an affectionate history of Cajun music. While Zydeco artists like Clifton Chenier (also the subject of Blank’s earlier film Hot Pepper) are discussed, in this film Blank keeps his focus on the Arcadians. However, he argues the two musical forms are closely related. Both use the same ingredients derived from French, African, and blues music sources, differing only in their proportions.

Au Bal gives a brisk history of Cajun music’s milestones, including the first Cajun record cut by Joe and Cléoma Falcon, the husband and wife accordionist and guitarist. Blank profiles many Cajun musicians, including fiddler Dennis McGee, considered the apostolic link between the original Cajun musicians and succeeding generations. Arguably forward thinking in his time, in 1929 McGee cut six sides with Creole accordionist Amédé Ardoin, at a time when racially integrated sessions were far from the norm. We also hear from many more contemporary performers, like Dewey Balfa, who is credited with launching a Cajun music revival with a well publicized set at the Newport Folk Festival. Altogether it gives viewers a comprehensive taste of Cajun music.

Blank has a true eye and ear for the music of Americana. His Film Forum retrospective starts Friday, screening twenty-six films in seven days. A Well Spent Life screens Saturday the 15th with Blank’s Herzog films. J'ai Été Au Bal screens Sunday with Hot Pepper. Cigarette Blues screens next Thursday with Blank’s polka film In Heaven There Is No Beer?, one of the many interesting combinations of the series.

MIAAC: Bose, the Forgotten Hero

I have already reviewed several Holocaust films this year, and there are quite a few more slated to open in time for awards season. With several reminders of National Socialist horror still fresh in the movie-going consciousness, it is a bit disconcerting to see a WWII film in which the Nazis are not the villains per se, but such is the case in Shyam Benegal’s Bose: the Forgotten Hero, which screened as part of the MIAAC Film Festival.

Forgotten opens with arguably the pivotal scene of Subhas Chandra “Netaji” Bose’s life: his parting of ways with Mahatma Gandhi. Bose wanted to take up arms against the British, while Gandhi remained committed to non-violence. As a result, Bose resigned the presidency of the Indian National Congress, and set out looking assistance fighting the British under the assumption that the enemy of his enemy was his friend. This led him to seek the aid of Soviet Russian, Imperial Japan, Fascist Italy, and Hitler’s Third Reich.

It is perfectly understandable that Bose had little love for the British Raj. However, many are troubled that he advocated military action against Britain at a time when the Union Jack was all that stood between a racist ideology and world domination. Eventually, with Japan’s backing, he assembled the Indian National Army (INA), which along with their Japanese patrons, engaged the British in the Burma Campaign.

Although Forgotten seems pretty forthright in addressing Bose’s relationship with the Fascists and National Socialists, this BBC report (consider the source) suggests their collaboration was even greater than originally thought. While we do see Bose express some reservations about Hitler’s racial policies, as portrayed in Benegal’s film, the revolutionary is still perfectly willing to accept his military aid. However, having intermarried with a white Austrian, Bose eventually found prudent to leave Berlin for Japan.

Bose led quite the interesting life. Though highly problematic, it is undeniably cinematic. Benegal keeps the action movingly along nicely, so its three and a half hour running time does not feel so excessive. A big, sprawling historical saga with excellent production values, Forgotten even produced a hit song. It is a great festival selection, because it is difficult to envision a film of Forgotten’s length and political incorrectness receiving much art-house distribution from the studio’s boutique divisions. It was in fact, one of the closing films of the MIAAC Film Festival, when it screened Sunday at the Asia Society.

Veterans Day

Let us pause a minute to remember two of jazz's great veterans:

Lt. James Reese Europe (1881-1919)

Maj. Glenn Miller (1904-1944)

Sira: Kora & Trumpet

Sira
By Ablaye Cissoko & Volker Goetze
ObliqSound

The kora might be somewhat exotic, but is not unheard of in jazz contexts, having been featured on sessions led by Randy Weston and Herbie Hancock, among others. However, a preeminent jazz kora player has yet to emerge—until now, perhaps. Together with German jazz trumpeter Volker Goetze, Senegalese kora player Ablaye Cissoko has recorded Sira, a gorgeous jazz-world fusion duo set that is surprisingly pronounced in its jazz inclinations.

As is immediately evident on the initial title track “Sira,” named after Cissoko’s daughter, their duets are haunting in their intimacy. Cissoko plays delicate cascades of notes on the kora that blend perfectly with his impassioned vocals and Volker’s burnished trumpet sound, which establishes the almost mystical vibe of the session.

Volker has a warm tone that on tunes like the traditional “Gorgorlou” would not be out of place in classical chamber music. In fact, this is chamber music, played with remarkable rapport. As a composer, Cissoko has also written some very evocative melodies, like the brief “Domain Domain,” which still features succinct but legitimate jazz solos from both artists.

Cissoko’s kora has a lush, even baroque sound at times. Yet the session over all has a hushed intensity that is pretty powerful, as on the kora player’s solo feature, “Faro,” co-composed with Goetze. Although Cissoko contributes most of the originals, Goetze penned the rhythmic but strangely elegant “Bamaya,” inspired by the Dogbane harvest dances of Ghana.

Sira concludes with two of the three traditional West African songs arranged by Cissoko. His clear and powerful vocal delivery on “Sakhadougou” and “Mansanni Cisse” should appeal to fans of his famous countryman, Youssou N’Dour. Richly melodic and deeply contemplative, they nicely sum up the collaboration between the two musicians.

Cissoko and Goetze are not newcomers to the jazz scene, having worked with musicians like Randy Weston and Craig Handy, respectively. However, Sira is still likely to strike a lot of jazz ears like a bolt out of the clear blue sky. It is an amazingly assured musical statement. Like fresh water flowing out of a deep well, it has a sound that sparkles, but is deeply rooted in centuries old traditions.

MIAAC: Bound, Unbound

The existence of religious tension in India will not exactly come as headline news. It probably will not come as a surprise either that its voices of moderation and tolerance often come from musicians. Such is the case in Shabnam Virmani’s documentary Bound, Unbound: Journeys with Ram & Kabir, which screened at this year’s MIAAC Film Festival.

Virmani begins her filmmaking journey in Ayodhya, the legendary birthplace of the Hindu God Ram (Rama), which would become particularly emblematic of religious strife. In the Sixteenth Century, a Hindu temple was demolished on Ram’s Fort Hill, by the Mughals to erect the Babri Mosque, widely celebrated for its ornate architecture. In 1992 throngs of Hindu nationalists returned the favor, demolishing the Mosque for the sake of Ram’s honor. Virmani interviews unrepentant street vendors hawking videos of the destruction, who clearly leave her discouraged. Can she find contemporary manifestations of Ram, besides such intolerance porn?

As it turns out, yes, thanks to musicians interpreting the work of Fifteenth Century poet Kabir. Thought to have been raised by a Muslim family, but taught by a Hindu master, the exact details of Kabir’s life are shrouded in mystery. Inspired by Ram, his own work seemed to draw from both traditions, leading many to think he deliberately conflated differences between the two. As a result, Virmani finds both Indian Hindus and Pakistani Sufi Muslims who take inspiration from his words.

When watching Unbound, prepare yourself for some serious harmonium. A close relative of the accordion, the hand-pumped keyboard is perfectly suited for the drone-like, ecstatic music of Kabir’s followers. Intended to induce a trancelike state, their groove really is hypnotic. The MIAAC also screened an entertaining documentary about one of Bollywood’s greatest composers, but the music of Unbound totally overshadows it.

Traveling in a Northwestern direction, Virmani introduces the audience to Prahlad Tipaniya of the Ujjain province (West Central India) and Mukhtiar Ali from Bikaner, Rajasthan (Northwest India). Their music is certainly compelling, but the most dramatic sounds probably come from Sufi Qawwal performer Fariduddin (Fareed) Ayaz and his ensemble. Hugely charismatic, Ayaz’s personality and his humanist philosophy dominates the final third of the film.

Part of Virmani’s four film Kabir documentary project, Unbound combines ecstatic music with a truly humanistic spirit. Even if its message of tolerance proves chimeric, the transcendent appeal of the music remains. It was perfect programming choice for this year’s MIAAC Film Festival.

MIAAC: Frontier Gandhi & David Amram

David Amram is a difficult musician to classify, frequently blurring the distinctions between jazz, classical, and world music. He has also composed scores for several memorable films including John Frankenheimer’s Manchurian Candidate, Elia Kazan’s Splendor in the Grass, and Robert Frank’s Pull My Daisy, featuring the “narration” of Jack Kerouac. Given his past collaboration with Kerouac and experimentation with world music, it is not surprising Amram had a strong affinity for T.C. McLuhan’s new documentary The Frontier Gandhi: Badshah Khan, a Torch for Peace, which had its American debut at the MIAAC Film Festival last night, followed by a special concert performance by Amram himself.

McLuhan’s documentary reverently tells the story of Ghaffar “Badshah” Khan, Mahatma Gandhi’s Islamic contemporary and close colleague in their campaign for Indian independence. Khan’s early advocacy of non-violence is presented as a remarkable development, since he was a devout Muslim Pashtun from what was then Northwest India, a region long associated with war and strife—think of the Khyber Pass. As Frontier explains, both men developed similar non-violent ideologies separately, but joined forces to become the Odd Couple of the Indian independence movement. One was short and Hindu, the other was tall and Muslim.

As a native of the North-West Frontier Province, independence did not exactly work out the way Khan had hoped, eventually finding himself a resident of Pakistan following the national referendum of 1947. Frontier is strongest when addressing Khan’s post-independence years in the wilderness, when he was all but forgotten in India and unwelcome in Pakistan, spending most of his time in Afghanistan. Unfortunately though, Frontier never truly gives a sense of who Khan was on a human level, ultimately becoming an exercise in hagiography.

Great effort clearly went into the making of Frontier, including interviews with Afghan President Hamid Karzai (who also happens to be Pashtun) and then Pakistani President Pervez Musharraf. Amram’s music is quite tasteful and appropriate throughout. Featuring the great Badal Roy on tabla, it incorporates his world and classical chops, but jazz is not an appreciable part of the compositional mix. However, his concert afterward would be a different story.

Amram developed a special program integrating music from around the globe, with an unusual quartet of Avram Pengas on either guitar or Greek bouzuki, his son Adam on congas, and daughter-in-law Teresa Colamonaco on tambourine (an instrument Amram spiritedly defended at one point), with the leader on just about everything else. He started on flute with a raga dedicated to Roy, before shifting to piano for a slow blues. Amram had a plethora of exotic instruments spread across the stage for pieces dedicated to various forms of traditional music, including the shanai and dumbek representing Egypt, the Lakota flute for a piece originally composed for the Philadelphia orchestra, and a surprisingly bluesy number featuring the bouzuki and traditional Chinese woodwind. However, the highlight of his set was a rendition of a jazz waltz he composed for a production of Arthur Miller’s After the Fall, which he started at the piano, but concluded playing two penny whistles simultaneously, Rahsaan Kirk-style.

Amram performed a great set, clearly inspired by McLuhan’s preceding film. As for the documentary itself, Frontier is at times informative, but its over-awed tone will limit its appeal to those who already share the filmmakers’ veneration of Khan. It screens again this afternoon at the Tribeca Cinemas.

MIAAC: A Throw of the Dice

In the 1920’s German director Franz Osten and Indian actor-producer Himansu Rai collaborated on three of the most artistically ambitious Indian films of the silent era. Despite their prominence in the Indian film industry during the 1920’s and 1930’s, the events of 1939 would derail both men’s careers, with Rai dying of nervous exhaustion and the British authorities interning Osten for being a German national with an inconvenient membership in the National Socialist Party. Thanks to the restoration efforts of the British Film Institute, audiences now have an opportunity to rediscover their third great silent collaboration, A Throw of Dice (1929, trailer here), which can be seen as it was intended, on a big screen, during the MIAAC Film Festival.

The restored Dice is now particularly accessible for contemporary audiences thanks to the newly commissioned soundtrack composed by Nitin Sawhney. Employing the London Symphony Orchestra for western oriented classical music, as well as flute and table players for traditional Indian flavor, Sawhney’s themes and orchestrations have a lushness that nicely compliments the visuals of this epic romance. Though not a radical departure from the music of Dice’s era, there is a certain modern sensibility in his music, which helps viewers relate to the film. For some reason, contemporary soundtracks are remarkably effective at breaking down emotional resistance to silent films. While restoration preserves the great silent films from decay, an effective new score can also save them from obscurity.

Taking its title from an incident in the Mahabharata, Dice is driven by universal motivations, namely love and greed, telling the story of two young rival kings and the common woman they both love. Ostensibly friends, King Sohan (played by the producer Rai) attempts to assassinate King Ranjit in a staged hunting accident. However, a local healer foils his plan, when he and his daughter Sunita nurse Ranjit back to health. While both princes fall in love with Sunita, she rejects the lavish gifts of the deceitful Sohan, eventually losing her heart to her honest but irresponsible patient.

Despite her father’s opposition, Sunita agrees to run off with Ranjit. They are happy together for seven days, until the mechanizations of Sohan’s evil schemes start to take effect. Framed for the murder of Sunita’s father, Ranjit finds himself enslaved to Sohan after losing his kingdom in a rigged dice game. Dice is quite the morality tale, identifying the vice of gambling as the source of all the spectacular misfortunes which befall Ranjit and Sunita.

Employing huge set pieces and extensive location shots, Dice is epic in scope. Beautifully restored by the BFI, Osten’s glorious black and white visuals look great on the big screen, sometimes redeeming a story that leans a bit on contrivances. However, the acting in Dice is a particularly pleasant surprise, seeming far subtler than the wild-eyed exaggerations commonly associated with silent cinema. With the able support of Sawhney’s elegant music, it makes for a fascinating viewing experience. (How often do you see any silent films on the big screen, let alone an Indian-German co-production?) Dice screens again today at the Tribeca Cinemas as part of the MIAAC and an American tour of the film is in development, which would feature the Symphony Orchestra of India performing soundtrack live in concert.

MIAAC: Shootout at Lokhandwala

During its brief existence, the Mumbai Anti Terrorist Squad (ATS) cut crime by an estimated seventy percent. Just over a month after it was disbanded, Mumbai (then Bombay) was rocked by the March 12, 1993 bombings. The historical record seems to argue persuasively on behalf of the ATS’s efficacy. However, the ATS was undone by its reputation for extreme measures, particularly for firing off nearly two thousand rounds of ammunition during a very public stand-off at a Lokhandwala apartment complex. (1,755 to be exact.) Apoorva Lakhia dramatized that controversial incident as best he could (given several key players are eternally unavailable for comment) in Shootout at Lokhandwala: Based on True Rumors (trailer .wmv), which screened last night at the Mahindra Indo-American Arts Council Film Festival (MIAAC).

Lokhandwala starts by showing the audience scores of shell cases being swept up off the blood splattered pavement. The audience will indeed watch as nearly every one of those 1,755 rounds is fired at the complex, but first we see the formation of the ATS, as told to the skeptical former-Justice Dhingra by its founder, Assistant Commissioner Aftab Ahmed (A.A.) Khan and his two top lieutenants.

In American pop culture terms, ATS is CTU and A.A. Khan is a somewhat older Jack Bauer. Initially, the ATS enjoys glowing media coverage, taking along an ambition television reporter to cover a successful strike against a terrorist outpost. Live by the media sword, die by the media sword. As played by Sanjay Dutt, Khan is a larger than life figure, tailor made for the media. He can get away with telling the reporter no policemen will die during their mission, because he is there. Rather than an expression of hubris, he makes it true. According to Lakhia during last night’s Q&A, a bit of business showing Khan contemptuously tossing away a bullet-proof vest is actually based on existing television footage of the Lokhandwala encounter. Oh yes, game on.

Lakhia directs action sequences like Michael Bay amped-up on amphetamines, making liberal use of dramatic freeze frames, jump cuts, and even the dreaded shaky cam. There are also three musical numbers, because that’s the way it has to be in Bollywood. For the record, A.A. Khan does not dance. Those duties fall on the Maya-Bhua gang, when not engaged in extortion and murder. The combination of Bollywood music and hard-boiled violent action sequences makes for quite the cinematic experience.

Dutt is fantastic as Khan, capturing both the intensity and peculiar charisma of the driven officer. The only drawback to Lokhandwala is the rather pedestrian Maya-Bhua villains, who are no match for his screen presence. Ultimately, Ex-Justice Dhingra proves to be his best foil, played with zest by the celebrated Indian actor Amitabh Bachchan, who consistently steals the show during his razor sharp cross-examination scenes.

The real Khan appears in Lokhandwala as the police commissioner who green-lights ATS operations. It would be interesting to know what he thought of Dutt, who at the time of filming, was embroiled in a series of legal battles stemming from his associations with the 1993 bombers. Presumably, Khan enjoyed the ending at least. As a high-octane, over-the-top action film, Lokhandwala is thoroughly enjoyable. I frequently laughed out loud (in a good way) at the film’s sheer relentless spectacle. It is highly recommended to those who prefer their action fast and furious, without any touchy-feeliness. It screens again tomorrow at the Tribeca Cinemas, as the MIAAC continues throughout the weekend.

Boy in the Striped Pajamas

A Holocaust story for young audiences is obviously a delicate proposition. Fully cognizant of Nobel Peace Laureate Elie Wiesel’s injunction against dramatizing the Holocaust, particularly by writers who did not experience it first hand, John Boyne wrote the young adult novel The Boy in the Striped Pajamas anyway. Now a British cast and crew have sensitively adapted his book for the screen. Directed by Mark Herman, known for quirky little pictures like Little Voice and Brassed Off, The Boy in the Striped Pajamas (trailer here) opens today in New York.

Though a sensitive, somewhat shy eight year-old boy, Bruno still has a lot of friends in school. Studies show kids are acutely sensitive to their classmates’ wealth and prestige, and Bruno’s father has serious clout. He is a National Socialist officer, whose career is on the rise—unfortunately so for Bruno. Bruno must say goodbye to his friends as his family moves out of their comfortable home to a cold austere villa in the countryside because his father has a new post. He is now a concentration camp commandant.

Bruno and his family were shielded from the true nature of the Third Reich, but with their new home perched on the far outskirts of the camp, reality begins to intrude. By chance, the only window which affords a distant view of the camp happens to be in Bruno’s room. Forbidden from exploring, Bruno naturally tests his boundaries, eventually reaching the barbed-wire fence of the concentration camp. There he meets a gaunt little boy roughly the same age named Shmuel. Though he says things that confuse young Bruno, the two become fast friends.

Tensions are rising in his family. As his mother watches his sister Gretel fall under the spell of her tutor’s hateful propaganda, she begins to have doubts about her husband’s assignment. When a junior officer’s callous joke reveals the camp’s true nature, she can no longer live in denial. Even with his limited understanding, Bruno also starts to question his father’s work, until he is taken-in by a propaganda film produced at the camp for the gullible International Red Cross.

These are areas fraught with peril for the film, but they are handled reasonably deftly. The effect of propaganda on the innocent Bruno and relatively innocent Gretel is all too believable. The mother’s stirring of conscience is also credible, while hardly expiating her guilt (and that of her contemporaries by extension). In fact, her instincts are to flee to a safe haven, where she can return to blissful ignorance.

To its credit, Herman’s film does not cheapen its subject with a pat, happy ending. It ends where it must end to honestly depict the Holocaust. As you see it happen, it is heartbreaking. Though it shamelessly hits every sentimental note available, James Horner’s stirring score is his best in years. As Bruno and Shmuel, Asa Butterfield and Jack Scanlon are surprisingly assured child actors. In a small but pivotal role, David Hayman is outstanding as Pavel, a former doctor interned in the camp who retains his humanity in the face of dehumanizing terror. Unfortunately, David Thewlis, the cast’s best known actor, lacks the heavy presence required in the role of Bruno’s father.

This is a genuinely moving film. However, the various taglines associated with it, like “lines may divide us but hope will unite us” are a bit misleading. Rather than the triumph of hope, this is a film about the consequences of hate that resists offering simple “lessons learned” morals to its characters. Overall, Herman avoids potential pitfalls, helming an excellent film. It opens in New York at the 3rd Avenue City Cinemas today.

Photo Credit: David Lukacs/Miramax Film Corp.

For Cult Film Oddballs Only: Repo! The Genetic Opera

It is very distracting to watch a film whose makers are clearly ignorant of the plot twists in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice. However, the description, “rock opera helmed by the director of Saw 2 co-starring Paris Hilton,” will probably be sufficient to convince most viewers to keep their distance. Those instincts are not wrong in the case of The Genetic Opera (trailer here), opening today in select cities.

It’s the year 2056 and life stinks. For vague environmental reasons, an epidemic of organ failures led to the rise of GeneCo, a medical-pharmaceutical corporation. Since this is a movie, you know the corporation must be evil, and is GeneCo ever so. Yes, they supply replacement organs, but their terms are what might be considered sub-prime, and their evil founder Rotti Largo loves nothing better than to order their repossession when their recipients fall into arrears. Of course, in Merchant, Shylock is foiled in his attempt to extract his pound of flesh, because he had no right to any of Antonio’s blood. (OK, maybe it was not Shakespeare’s greatest plot point, but Repo’s logical gaps are far more egregious.)

Like all movie businessmen, Rotti is evil in all aspects of life. He murdered his ex-lover, tricking her husband, Dr. Nathan Wallace, into believing he was responsible. Blackmailed by Rotti, the tortured Dr. Wallace, unfortunately a GeneCo employee, becomes his Repoman. In between ridiculously gruesome repossessions, Wallace tends to his sickly daughter Shilo, desperately seeking a cure for her rare blood disease.

A clichéd plot could be forgiven if the music of Repo was compelling. Unfortunately, it is not. In this context, rock opera seems to mean characters constantly wailing their angst, with little discernable variance in mood, melody, tempo, or dynamics. There is no flag-waving opener, or even a love ballad. Repo is based on a successful stage musical that had successful runs in Los Angeles and Toronto, but clearly something was lost in translation.

One guesses Paul Sorvino accepted the role of Largo for the opportunity to exercise his operatic chops. Anthony Head, best known as Giles in Buffy the Vampire-Slayer, must have agreed to play Dr. Wallace in hopes of boosting his asking price for fan conventions. In her first screen role, Sarah Brightman absolutely has the voice for Blind Mag, the opera diva spokesperson for GeneCo. In fact, the voices of all the principals are strong, but are undermined by the undistinguished tunes.

The most successful aspect of Repo is the Creepshow-like comic book interludes. They give the film a distinctive look and help set the macabre atmosphere. However, the rest of the film looks deliberately low budget, perhaps to court the cult film subculture. They will probably eat it up at midnight movie screenings. Hey, nobody’s forcing them, but have pity on the projectionists.

Gilfema + 2: Second CD, Two Guests

Gilfema + 2
ObliqSound

Gilfema is a band. That is somewhat rare in jazz, where most successful combos support a leader or occasionally co-leaders. Although sometimes all three perform together as the Lionel Loueke Trio, as Gilfema they do things the cooperative way, which is reflected in the even distribution of composing duties on their second release, Gilfema + 2.

If you accompanied Gilfema on tour, you would hear a lot of highly melodic, upbeat jazz, built atop various grooves and world music influences. You could also probably learn how to cuss in several new languages, given the origins of the band members. Loueke hails from the West African nation of Benin (official language French). Bassist Massimo Biolcati is Swedish-Italian and drummer Ferenc Nemeth is Hungarian. Where did they meet? New York City, of course. For G+2, the trio added two clarinets, Anat Cohen from Israel, and John Ellis, playing the bass variety.

Right from the introductory notes of Loueke’s “Twins,” G+2 has a fresh, clean sound. Here the composer’s vocals sound great layered above the deep rich clarinets. Nemeth’s “Question of Perspective” nicely employs voice, guitar and clarinet in unison, for another very hummable up-tempo track. For infectious funk though, Loueke’s “Your World,” lays down the most addictive groove of the CD. A killer track, it is definitely a highlight of the release.

Consistently melodic and buoyant, G+2 is probably at its most subdued on Biolcati’s cool-toned “One Mind’s Eye” and Nemeth’s relaxed “Morning Dew,” while “Salome” probably uses the darkest aural colors of G+2, allowing ample space for a bass solo from the composer. In general though, the session is an upbeat, high energy affair, as on “Festa,” which almost has a pseudo-calypso thing going on, capped off by a cool little coda from Loueke.

Incorporating a bit of highlife and bit of jam band, Gilfema play jazz you can dance too. In a way, they are heirs to Hugh Masekela, at least during his funky but still legit Chisa years (before the disco abominations). Though Loueke is undoubtedly the best known of the three, all have recorded under their own names (including Biolcati’s recent debut as a leader Persona, also on ObliqSound). They form a cohesive unit on G+2, seamlessly integrating the two guest clarinets into the mix. It all makes for a really distinct sound, as they create music that is actually fun to listen

Wajda: Katyn

The Lincoln Center Film Society titled their Andrzej Wajda retrospective Truth or Dare, and it is an apt moniker indeed. In his most recent film, Katyń, Soviet lies and propaganda are nearly as painful for the loved ones grieving those killed by Stalin’s forces in 1940. It opens at the Film Forum in February, but given how susceptible a large portion of the American electorate has been to propaganda this year, one wishes it had opened before the election. Look for a proper review when Katyń opens in February, but be assured it is worth the wait. The most personal work of the master director’s accomplished career, Katyń (trailer here) is a withering examination of Soviet brutality, the corrosive effect of an orchestrated campaign of lies, and the moral cost of willfully accepting injustice.

Wadja’s own father was among the Polish POWs and other prominent citizens rounded-up and executed by the Red Army on the orders of Stalin (rubber-stamped by the Politburo) in 1940. That date is important. For years, the Soviets claimed the Germans committed the atrocity in 1941, until Gorbachev and Yeltsin finally confirmed Soviet culpability.

In his introduction at the Walter Reade Theater, Wajda gave the audience a probably much needed primer on the Ribbentrop-Molotov Pact and Soviet-National Socialist cooperation in the early stages of the war. His opening scene harrowingly illustrates the point, as Poles from the east fleeing the Russians collide on a bridge with Poles from the west fleeing the Germans.

Katyń moves back and forth in time, jumping to and from the events surrounding the massacre in the Russian woods, and the post-war aftermath. Many challenge the official story, but pay dearly for their dissent. The principal of the Fine Arts Academy seems more realistic when she flatly argues: “Poland will never be free again,” so it is best to scrape out what little consolation is available.

It will be impossible to discuss Wajda’s oeuvre without addressing Katyń. If not his greatest film, it is certainly his most visceral. Watching it on the Upper Westside of Manhattan was an unforgettable experience. Waiting in line for the film to start, I heard all the tired Palin bashing from those blind to their own presidential candidate’s far greater inexperience and naiveté. At one point a gentlemen in-line ahead of me sneered his disapproval for interview in which Gov. Palin gauchely expressed support for “killing the bad guys.” Once inside, Wajda received a well deserved standing ovation, before and after his remarks. However, as the final credits rolled, the theater was absolutely silent. Those in the audience were either in a state of awed reverence for what they had just seen or stunned into slack-jawed silence for the rebuke they had received. I have never loved the movies as much as I did in that moment, thanks to Andrzej Wajda.

Katyń makes it inescapably clear evil does exist in the world. There are in fact “bad guys” who are highly organized and determined to commit heinous crimes against us and free people everywhere. Denying their intent or attempting to appease them will only end in compounded tragedy. Today, before you vote, consider which candidate recognizes the gravity of the threats facing America and which would simply “hope” them away. Disregard the media propaganda and make an informed choice.

Then in February, look for Katyń at the Film Forum. Though it dramatizes events of some sixty years ago, it is disconcertingly timely today. Katyń is a great film, perhaps not Wajda’s masterpiece, but certainly a masterwork.

Wajda: Rough Treatment

Strictly speaking, is it even possible to be “paranoid” when living under an oppressive government? If you think the system is out to get you, eventually you’re always going to be right. Polish foreign correspondent Jerzy Michalowski comes to understand that only too well. When the protagonist of Andrzej Wajda’s Rough Treatment suddenly finds himself beset with personal and professional setbacks, it is surely no coincidence. Screening tonight as part of the Lincoln Center Film Society’s Wajda retrospective, Treatment (a.k.a. Without Anesthesia)dramatizes the Kafkaesque persecutions that were the modus operandi of the Communist Party during the Gierek years (1970-1980).

Michalowski enjoys being a public intellectual. Loosely inspired by Ryszard Kapuściński, Wajda’s protagonist has travelled the world, reporting extensively from the Third World. As played by Zbigniew Zapasiewicz, Michalowski is gregarious and smugly satisfied with own success. If arrogance is too strong a term for him, he is certainly blessed with self-confidence of a magnitude that sets him up for a downfall worthy of Greek Tragedy.

Given his prestige, Michalowski is chosen as the first guest of new primetime interview show. Relishing the attention, he lets his enthusiasm carry him away, questioning how well “the mass media serves the purpose of truthful information.” This of course, is a bad career move.

After the interview no one will say anything to Michalowski directly, but subtle losses in privileges start to mount. Fully aware of the importance of each apparently minor slight, like being left off the circ list for American newsweeklies, the reporter protests to his network patron. However, he is unable to focus his undivided attention on his professional predicament, because of trouble on the home front. He is simultaneously challenging divorce proceedings initiated by his wife Ewa.

It is no coincidence that everything is happening at once to Michalowski. He is paying a price for his candor, slowly becoming professionally and socially persona non grata through a cold-blooded process Wajda himself closely observed when it was applied to his own professional acquaintances. Following Man of Marble during his consciously political period of filmmaking, Treatment is clearly a provocative film. Although Michalowski’s offending words are kept deliberately vague, there is no mistaking their thinly veiled meaning or their dire repercussions which result. On screening Marble and Treatment, it is clear why Wajda found it advisable to seek temporary sanctuary in France during the early 1980’s.

Zapasiewicz gives a great performance, fully capturing both the bluster and pathos of Michalowski. Wajda and screenwriter Agnieszka Holland depict his personal tragedy in cold, unsentimental terms. Far from hysterical, it was a lucid indictment of the then reality of Communist Poland. The state built him up, and then the state tore him down. Although Michalowski and Treatment might be hard to love, they are unquestionably compelling to watch. A historically important film in the Wajda canon, it screens tonight at the Walter Reade Theater.

Live on Park Ave: The Roswell Rudd Quartet

While at Yale, Roswell Rudd played with Eli’s Chosen Six, the rambunctious Dixieland combo seen playing and partying at Newport in Bert Stern’s Jazz on a Summer’s Day. However, his first recordings as a leader established him as the foremost trombonist in the jazz avant-garde. Rudd has had one of those interesting careers. In recent years, he has gone back to touch some of those bases between Dixieland and free jazz, while also incorporating various elements of world music, including traditional forms from Mali and Mongolia. Both those recent stylistic impulses were audible during the Roswell Rudd Quartet’s concert last night at the Korean Cultural Service in New York.

Rudd’s current quartet, featuring Korean vocalist Sunny Kim, probably represents the most accessible, swing-based music of his career. Some of their best originals, including “Whatever Turns You On” and “I’m Going Sane” penned by Rudd and producer Verna Gillis respectively, have a quirky vibe that brings to mind some of Mose Allison’s greatest hits. Kim showed a particular facility for such quirky lyrics and the quartet was swinging behind her quite nicely. In between, she also showed her impressive scat chops on the onomatopoeic “Suh Blah Blah Buh Sibi.”

Despite Rudd’s preface crediting Duke Ellington as the original avant-gardist, nothing could be stylistically further from Rudd’s Fire Music than the Ellington-Strayhorn medley. Of course, Ellington was an innovator of the first magnitude, and his music clearly still inspires Rudd and his colleagues. Kim had a lovely feature spot with “Come Sunday,” followed by Rudd channeling his gut-bucket roots through “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.” “Sophisticated Lady” was reserved as a solo for pianist Lafayette Harris, Jr., who displayed a sensitive touch on the elegant standard. The whole group came back in with Strayhorn’s “Johnny Come Lately,” nicely wrapping up the Ellingtonian interlude.

Perhaps the most intriguing selections were the Quartet’s new jazz settings of traditional Korean songs. At least three quarters of the audience signaled their familiarity with the first, “Arirang,” which Kim rightly described as a blues. The second, “Kang Byun Sal Ja,” based on a traditional children’s song, came off more like a slow ballad. Wisely, Rudd and his group kept the arrangements simple and pared down, often letting Kim carry much of the melody, allowing their audience to recognize the familiar lyrics. These were definite concert highlights, so it would be great if Rudd’s Quartet can record material like this in the future.

Throughout the night, Harris and bassist Brad Christopher Jones really locked-in behind the leader and featured vocalist. In fact, Harris’s sparklingly eloquent solo on “Loved by Love,” helped elevate a song nearly undone by its sentimentality. Jones demonstrated tremendous arco technique during his solo prelude to the concluding “Blues for the Planet Earth/You Blew It,” but would someone care to explain why cell phones always seem to erupt during bass solos. (Please show the bassist some love and turn them off in the future.)

Given the Korean Cultural Service’s classy address, Rudd joked it was the first time in his long career that he ever played on Park Avenue. However, Rudd’s Quartet tours frequently, so by now they really sound like a legitimate, cohesive band (they can be heard as a quartet on their newest CD Keep Your Heart Together). While the music might be far-removed from his New Thing sessions, Rudd still plays with wit and flare, clearly enjoying the process of making music with these musicians.