On Beale Street

On Beale Street
By Ronald Kidd
Simon & Schuster

In 1954, the Fourth of July fell on a Sunday, leading the churchgoing city fathers of Memphis to postpone the fireworks until the following night. At least that is how today’s holiday is observed in Ronald Kidd’s new YA novel On Beale Street, greatly disappointing the young protagonist Johnny Ross.

For a host of reason, young Ross would be happier up North, the least being fireworks. As the novel opens, he is an innocent white kid, about to get a rude awakening regarding racial realities in 1950’s Memphis. He also gets his first taste of the blues, and it has a powerful effect. He talks his way into a gofer position with Sam Phillips at Sun Records, and meets a shy white singer a few years older than him, who shares his new found taste in music. The name: Elvis.

Tentatively crossing the color line, Ross also befriends African American Lamont Turner, the son of his mother’s employer’s chauffeur-gardener, who happens to blow a mean harp. However, it is his legs that get the most attention:

“Lean and limber, wrapped in loose-fitting purple slacks, they swung and stretched and whipped and gyrated, knees bumping together and circling out again, always moving, never standing still, the pant legs flapping like flags.” (p. 44)

In Beale, it is no coincidence if that brings to mind the moves of Johnny Ross’s other musical friend, destined to create a stir on the Ed Sullivan show. Kidd addresses musical appropriation head-on, when Turner’s accusations make him the prime suspect in an assault (purely fictional) on Presley. It all leads to some hard lessons in race and reality for the young Ross.

When Kidd writes about race he prefers a heavy hand to a light touch. Granted issues of racial identity become central to his plot. Johnny Ross might start the book as an innocent kid, but even so, he seems pretty slow on the up-take. The strongest aspects of Beale are the historically accurate musical details Kidd weaves into his narrative. In addition to Presley, blues musicians James Cotton and Pat Hare also appear in their pre-Muddy Waters days. According to his post-script, Kidd had his manuscript vetted by Scotty Moore, Presley’s first and greatest guitarist, giving Beale his seal of approval.

Kidd is not exactly subtle when imparting his moral and some awkward passages needed greater editorial attention. However, it is a quick read that will explain the significance of the Blues and institutions like Memphis’s African American radio station WDIA to YA readers. It’s Friday night, so enjoy the fireworks. Happy Fourth of July.

Jazz on the Fourth of July

Louis Armstrong believed he was born on July 4, 1900. Subsequent historical research might suggest otherwise, but why get hung up on mere details? A true Horatio Alger figure, who revolutionized both instrumental and vocal music, and represented America abroad as the unofficial “Ambassador Satch,” it is a symbolically fitting birthday for Armstrong, so I always listen to his music over the holiday. This Fourth of July you can see him on the big screen when the Lincoln Center’s Walter Reade screens Bert Stern’s celebrated documentary Jazz on a Summer’s Day.

1958 was a busy Fourth of July weekend for Rhode Island. In addition to George Wein’s Newport Jazz Festival, America’s Cup qualifying heats were running off the coast. Part of Summer’s charm is the way director Bert Stern incorporates not just the races, but all the life and carousing going on around the festival.

Jimmy Giuffre might not be widely known outside of jazz circles, but his performance of “The Train and the River” was an inspired choice for the opening credits. Breezy and bluesy with a hint of abstractness, it perfectly matches Stern’s images of the ocean and his wavy titles. This was Giuffre’s most accessible combo, a trio of himself on reeds, Bob Brookmeyer on valve trombone and Jim Hall on guitar (visible only when taking a bow at the end of the number). As many times as I have seen this film, this sequence always draws me in again.

In retrospect, it seems weird Thelonious Monk was scheduled so early in the festival. We see him playing to a sparse audience that included an appreciative Gerry Mulligan, who would take the stage later that night. Monk’s performance of “Blue Monk” and VOA D.J. Willis Conover’s introduction might actually sound familiar, having been sampled in a sneaker commercial.

Festival attendees were indeed fortunate getting a chance to hear future legends in sideman roles, most famously including a young Roswell Rudd, later to become the most important trombonist in the avant-garde, seen in Newport careening around the roads with the Dixieland band Eli’s Chosen Six. We also hear working bands that sadly never recorded outside of Stern’s film, like the group co-led by Sonny Stitt and former Kenton guitarist Sal Salvador, stuck with the dreaded “under-appreciated” appellation throughout his career.

A young Eric Dolphy also appears in a sideman role with Chico Hamilton’s band. Stern uses the Hamilton group as a touchstone throughout the film, juxtaposing their serious rehearsals with the revelry of the festival. I often use their performance of “Blue Sands” as an ace-in-the-hole in my jazz survey courses. The combination of the exotic sounds of Dolphy’s flute and Nate Gershman’s cello combined with Stern gorgeous color photography is always a knockout punch.

Of course the biggest star was Louis Armstrong, performing in the film’s penultimate timeslot for a clearly adoring audience. As Armstrong plays and relates anecdotes of hobnobbing with crowned heads of Europe for Conover, the film establishes him as uncrowned American royalty. After Armstrong’s Saturday night set finishes past midnight, Conover gives Mahalia Jackson probably the best stage introduction ever, ending Summer on Sunday morning with a gospel note.

Summer is a classic. For all the times I have watched it for use in a class, I still enjoy it like I’m seeing I for the first time. It is patriotic movie too. After all, it honors America’s only original art form: jazz. It screens four times today at the Walter Reade, with Stern and Wein appearing as honored guests for the 6:00 show. Happy Fourth of July.

NYAFF & Japan Cuts: Yasukuni

It is a little surprising to see a documentary like director Li Ying’s Yasukuni screen under the auspices of the Japan Society’s Japan Cuts (co-presented by the NYAFF), because it documents Japanese attitudes about World War II many would probably prefer not to advertise to the world. Generating more controversy than tickets sales in Japan, with its central character, ninety year-old sword smith Kariya Naoharu, demanding to be cut from film, Yasukuni (trailer here) will screen at the Japan Society this Saturday.

Naoharu is the final surviving artisan forging swords in the workshop connected to the Yasukuni shrine honoring those who died in military service to the emperor. Though founded in 1869, eighty percent of the consecrated were killed in World War II. You will not hear those words in the documentary though, as visitors to the shrine prefer the term “Great East Asia War.” As heard in the doc, the recorded message at the Yasukuni visitor center veers pretty close to Orwellian territory:

“If Japan is confused today, veterans tell us that the Great East Asia War was a war fought to defend Japan. And they declare: If you claim that Japan fought a war of aggression, that the Japanese army committed crimes, then you have been manipulated by false history and you are violating the honor and pride of the Japanese.”

Pearl Harbor? Never happened. Neither did the Rape of Nanking according to visitors to the shrine. Cranks can be found anywhere, but according to the film, convicted war criminals, including those involved in a “beheading contest” in Nanking, are also consecrated in Yasukuni. Conversely, some families want their departed removed from the shrine for religious or cultural reasons. The Yasukuni flack seen accepting a petition from a coalition of Buddhists and ethnic Taiwanese and then dissing the families does not do any PR favors for the Shinto shrine.

Prime Minister Koizumi (in the third documentary I have seen him in this year) takes heat for praying at Yasukuni, but to be fair he is in a tough spot. It is completely appropriate to honor the Japanese rank-and-file who died in WWII, provided a distinction is made between them and the militarist government, whose policies caused their deaths. Rewriting history and denying Japanese war crimes is an entirely different matter. (However, one wishes he had taken a harder line with North Korea in the Megumi Yokota case and campaigned more for Yama-san.)

Long sequences of Yasukuni simply consist of the various ceremonies and protests at the controversial shrine. After a while, you get the point. Periodically, the audience sees the taciturn sword smith going about his craft with zen-like calm (which is oddly fascinating), juxtaposed against historical images of the Imperial war machine. That Naoharu is not thrilled with the final film is actually understandable.

Of course, the film was primarily intended as a reality check for Japanese audiences. The fact that Li Ying is Chinese did not exactly help its reception. In general though, it seems safe to say there is more than a little denial at work in Japan regarding World War II, which could lead to some fundamental misunderstandings about how the world perceives Japan’s actions in the course of twentieth century history. It screens under the joint auspices of NYAFF and Japan Cuts July 5th.

Japan Cuts & NYAFF: Sukiyaki Western Django

After Kurosawa films inspired westerns like The Magnificent Seven and A Fistful of Dollars, it makes a certain amount of twisted logic to re-import the spaghetti western back into Japan. Takashi Miike’s Sukiyaki Western Django (trailer here) is that film. Borrowing from Sergio Leone, Sergio Corbuccio, and indirectly Kurosawa, Miike recasts Yojimbo in feudal Japan, using what look like the costumes for a western-themed stage show meant to star Liberace. Sukiyaki opens theatrically in late August, leaving me time to fully analyze its nuances for a full review later. However, it plays as part of NYAFF and Japan Cuts this Saturday, so here are some answers to questions you might ask to get a sense of whether you will enjoy it.

Q: Is this action-oriented or more like those moody revisionist westerns?
A: Basically, Miike cranks up the action somewhere between a cartoon and a video game.

Q: Is it violent?
A: If you mean do characters literally blow holes through each other big enough to see through, then yes.

Q: Is Quentin Tarantino annoying as all get-out in his small supporting role?
A: Totally.

Q: Is there an attractive love interest?
A: Yep, played by Yoshino Kimura.

Q: Is it subtitled?
A: No, everyone speaks an unnatural sounding, phonetic English. An occasional subtitle might have helped.

Q: Does stuff fly through the air a lot?
A: That would be a hyper-kinetic yes.

Q: Did I enjoy it?
A: Overall yes, but the film has a bit of a mean streak at times that slightly dampens my enthusiasm.

You were probably already looking forward to this film if the name Takashi Miike means anything to you. The brief write-up above should also give you a good idea if this film is for you. It plays at the Japan Society Saturday night, so have fun.

Japan Cuts: Mourning Forest

The archetypal dark forest has long sheltered mysterious spirits in our collective imagination, manifesting in diverse sources ranging from Midsummer’s Night Dream to Twin Peaks. In Naomi Kawase’s Mourning Forest (Mogari no Mori), the woods are indeed haunted for two characters united through circumstances and in their grief. Winner of the 2007 Cannes Grand Prix, Forest (Japanese trailer here) is the demanding but prestigious opening night feature for the Japan Society’s Japan Cuts Festival, receiving its New York premiere tonight.

Clearly, Kawase is not a filmmaker to be rushed. Her story is simple, but she takes her time with it. Mourning her young son and spurned by her husband, Machiko takes employment in a friend’s remote home for the elderly. One of her apparently senile charges, Mr. Shigeko, initially takes exception to her presence, perhaps due to the similarity between her name and that of his late wife Mako. Eventually they form a bond, evidently based on their shared inner sorrow.

When Machiko ventures into the woods with Shigeko in search of his wife’s grave, the film hints at the supernatural, with the forest almost becoming a mystical entity onto itself. While the film seems to offer a dramatic clue as to how Machiko’s son perished, Kawase prefers ambiguity to neatly packaged moments of catharsis. She is also not afraid to let the camera linger over a beautiful visual, disregarding such mundane concerns as pacing, plot development, and dialogue.

Forest is poetic in its conception, benefiting from the honestly emotive performances of its two main leads. Shigeki Uda is quite convincing as the elderly lost soul, and Machiko Ono is heartbreaking as the grieving mother. Nakase does not make it easy for them either, allowing for little dialogue, while often filming at very close-range.

It is highly unlikely you will see Forest pop up at your local multiplex. It is a serious film by a serious director, featuring truly outstanding performances. While there are moments of emotional payoff, working through the film to get there is often an agonizingly slow process. For dogged cineastes, it is a high profile beginning to the Japan Cuts festival’s twelve days of contemporary Japanese film.

NYAFF & Japan Cuts: United Red Army

It was certainly red, but not always united. As dramatized in director Koji Wakamatsu’s United Red Army (trailer here), the terrorist group that sprung out of the Japanese variant of the New Left was often plagued by factionalism and internal power struggles. Wakamatsu, a sometimes ally and contemporary of the URA has produced a chilling look at the inner workings of the Maoist terrorists, making it relevant (perhaps unintentionally so) to everyone studying terrorism today.

Wakamatsu leaves absolutely no doubt where the URA and its Red Army Faction predecessors were coming from. During one of many “self-critique” re-education sessions, their leader, Tsuneo Mori played by Go Jibiki, spells it out pretty clearly:

“Saying ‘I want to live’ is an abandoning of revolutionary thought. A defeat with regard to Communism. To give yourself to party-building as a Communist is the only meaning of ‘living’.”

These are not misguided anti-war protestors, but hardcore Maoists (in fact, when Nixon makes his historic visit to China late in the film, it is a real buzz-kill for the surviving URA faithful). As Wakamatsu tells the group’s history, one wonders if he realizes how much he actually reveals.

The film consists of three segments. First we see the rise of the Red Army Faction out of anti-American campus demonstrations. As the protests become increasingly violent, the resulting deaths of some demonstrators are used to radicalize those prone to extremism.

During the second phase of the film, the Red Army Faction consolidates with another Communist Party splinter group into the United Red Army, taking to the mountains, ostensibly for military training. However, even before the revolution begins, the Red Army launches a reign of terror within its ranks. Here URA begins to resemble a horror movie, as one-by-one, loyal members are forced to undergo “self criticism,” clearly inspired by the Cultural Revolution, culminating with torture and fatal beatings.

URA concludes with the ill-fated Asama-Sansō stand-off, in which a remnant of the terrorist group held an innocent hostage in her husband’s mountain lodge. Despite his personal disillusionment, Hiroshi Sakaguchi commands his men decked out in Rachel Ray’s wardrobe (remember it has no significance beyond fashion). Wakamatsu’s icy docudrama style gives little attention to character development. After all, the URA must breakdown all personalities for the sake of ideological purity. What we see in URA is the sublimation of the individual to the collective—a textbook example of how cults work.

Wakamatsu is still very much associated with Japanese far left, and remains banned from entering the United States (he is addressing festival audiences via satellite hook-up). Whatever his intentions were with the film, it is a brutal, disturbing look at violent fanaticism, unlikely to generate sympathy for his former comrades. It will be part of four days of screenings jointly presented by the NYAFF and Japan Cuts Festival of New Japanese Film at the Japan Society, on July 6th.

NYAFF: Assembly

War, what is it good for? On a macro level: closure. In 1950 China, like it or not, the Communists won and the Nationalists lost—period, end of story. However, Red Army Captain Gu Zidi is in desperate need of closure in Assembly, the Chinese epic of war and its personal repercussions, which screened at NYAFF.

 According to Assembly, there was a huge difference between KIA and MIA in the PLA. If killed in action, a soldier’s family received seven hundred kilos of rice and recognition for a hero’s sacrifice to the revolution. Without a body, they get two hundred kilos and the unspoken stigma of implied desertion. In post-war years, that distinction will haunt Gu, pushing him to the brink of madness.

After serving time in the brig for ordering the execution of unarmed POWs, Gu is reinstated for a suicide mission—covering the retreating PLA from vastly greater Nationalist forces until they hear the bugler call assembly (a plot point important enough to supply the title). As per his instructions, Captain Gu fights to the last man, himself, but his efforts to protect the bodies of his fallen backfires. After loyal service in the civil war and Korea, Gu dedicates himself to fighting the military bureaucracy, hoping to rehabilitate their reputations.

Director Feng Xiaogang does the grit and grime of warfighting quite well. When the bullets and bodies literally fly through the air, Assembly is at its best. However, things get a bit bogged down during its years of post-war angst. Also, when viewers have time to think about the film, some aspects can be a bit troubling, like its favorable view of “political officers” (read ideological enforcers) or Gu’s lack of remorse for his acknowledged war crimes.

There is no question Assembly thinks the right side won in 1950. It is frankly propaganda, but propaganda of an artistic order in the tradition of Battleship Potemkin. Given its unflattering portrayal of the post-war military bureaucracy as well as some cold-blooded battlefield decisions of the PLA, Assembly could conceivably find itself out of favor in the future, should power shift in the poliburo. If it can be separated from its ideology, Assembly is an intense war film, that draws you into Gu’s dilemma. Reportedly, Assembly was leading in the vote for the festival audience award, so maybe greater distribution is in its future.

Sal Mosca, Sung

Film Festivals are the last real forum for short prestige films, but the internet represents an untapped frontier. Youtube might already be the go-to pace for quicky moron movies, but the potential of online distribution for quality shorts has attracted the attention of some film festivals.

This year, the Jackson Hole Film Festival established the Online 2 Onscreen competition, in which the winners in each category of short films posted online received a real life festival screening. In a nice turn of events, the winner for best documentary was James Lester’s Sal Mosca, Unsung a profile of the under-recognized jazz pianist.

Mosca, who passed away last year, often shunned the spotlight and declined offers of road gigs, preferring life as a family man and his studies with jazz great Lennie Tristano. It is clear his mentor loomed large in Mosca’s life, as we see his framed photo occupying a place of honor in the pianist’s music room. We can also see and hear Mosca’s skills remained undiminished, when Lester lovingly focuses on close-ups of Mosca’s hands in performance.

Though short by design, Lester shoehorns in a fair amount of context and interview segments, giving audiences a reasonable sense of Mosca’s career. The story of his bandstand encounter with Bird and Miles alone should be enough to fortify Mosca’s street cred.

Unsung looks great, even on a monitor, and what music we hear sounds fantastic. It compares well to other nonfiction shorts I have seen on the festival circuit, despite its online pedigree. You can check it out here.

Chet’s Zeitgeist

When introducing his Chet Baker documentary Let’s Get Lost at the MoMA last night, director Bruce Weber described the trumpeter-vocalist as a “character.” However, someone can be both a character and a crummy human being. Lost actually screened as part of a retrospective tribute to the Zeitgeist Films, the independent distributor, not the Jazz Score series, but the timing is fortuitous now that the MoMA attracting more jazz patrons to its screenings.

As a film, Lost is undeniably impressive. Weber has a keen eye for dramatic images and Jeff Preiss’s cinematography is starkly effective. The problem is the subject. Deep in a Dream, James Gavin’s biography of Baker, paints a picture of an abusive junkie, who happened to occasionally play jazz. Weber’s treatment is not nearly as harsh, but there is no camouflaging the toll Baker’s habit wrecked on his body. Some in the audience audibly gasped on hearing the emaciated trumpeter was fifty-seven at the time of filming. (He would be dead at fifty-eight.)

Weber might consider Baker a character, but it is difficult to understand why. We only see a flicker of light behind his eyes when Halema (wife #2) is mentioned, but it is quickly extinguished. The Chet Baker of Lost seems like an empty shell, onto which his wives and girlfriends (and maybe even Weber) projected what they wanted to see.

Baker recorded some magical sessions for Dick Bock’s Pacific Jazz label. However, his later discography is very “hit-or-miss,” reflecting the corrosive influence of his habit and the resulting frequent need of a quick buck. Arguably, his greatest talent was for squandering his gifts and exploiting those closest to him.

This is the second time I have seen Lost on the big screen in just over one year. While my response remains mixed, I enjoyed it more last night, probably because greater time has passed since reading Gavin. Again, this reaction is all about the problematic Baker and not the film itself. Lost is an iconic jazz documentary that has permanently shaped how Baker is remembered, both as the withered death’s head of the 1980’s and the La Dolce Vita-like Italian movie footage that Weber uses as the film’s inspired conclusion. It is worth seeing Lost if you have the opportunity, but how you might feel about Baker afterward, I can make no guarantees.

Norma Winstone at Joe’s Pub

Something about Norma Winstone seemed perfect for Joe’s Pub, the club connected to Joseph Papp’s Public Theater. In concert last night, she was warm and expressive delivering lyrics, but also witty and charming between songs, commanding the attention of what looked to be a full house with her stage presence.

Accompanying Winstone were her current working group of Klaus Gesing on bass clarinet (and sometimes soprano) with Glauco Venier on piano, heard together on Winstone’s latest release, Distances. Their musical and personal rapport came through clearly on-stage, as when both Winstone and Gesing volunteered their enthusiastic appreciation for the music of the Alpine region of Italy, which inspired some of Venier’s compositions.

As would be expected, much of the first set was drawn from Distances. Instead of sounding rote or perfunctory, Winstone’s songs rang like audio gems, polished to near perfection. Their renditions were not note-for-note from the session tapes though. The percussive introduction to “The Mermaid” seemed longer and more pronounced, giving the piece a slightly more upbeat vibe. On the other hand, their take on the Cole Porter standard “Every Time We Say Goodbye” might have been even more dramatically austere than their recorded version. For an encore, Winstone returned with Peter Gabriel’s “Here Comes the Flood,” performed in much the same spirit as on the album, but proving a perfect vehicle for her nuanced in-the-moment vocal interpretation.

Maybe a third of Winstone’s selections were drawn from outside of Distances, but most still sounded quite compatible to the new release in style and tone. The closest to an exception was a nice change-of-pace duet for Winstone and Gesing that was downright bluesy.

Distances is quite a disk. Over a week after posting the review, I still find myself revisiting it, which does not often happen, even with very good albums. Usually after days of intense listening, one is ready to move onto something new. There is just something elegantly compelling about Winstone’s voice that entices repeated listening. A British subject honored for her contributions to the arts, Winstone does not often tour America, so future opportunities to hear her in an intimate performance, like at Joe’s Pub, should not be passed up.

NYAFF: Shadows in the Palace

The New York Asian Film Festival is screening war films, horror movies, and gangster shoot-outs, but the cruelest deeds seen on-screen probably come from the maids in the royal court of Korea’s Joseon Dynasty. Their court intrigue leads to murder and other heinous crimes in Kim Mee-Jeung’s historical mystery, Shadows in the Palace.

In her directorial debut, Mee-Jeung submerges the audience in an often sinister world, in which young women consigned to court service are subject to harsh discipline and sadistic rituals. What men they have limited contact with appear weak and decadent. The king reigns supreme of course, but through proximity to him comes real influence. As Palace opens, the Queen is engaged in a deadly serious power struggle with her rival, Hee-Bin, the king’s favored concubine. As the mother of the king’s only son thus far, she stands to secure her position if the king declares him the royal heir. However, her efforts are jeopardized by the murder of her chamber maid.

Needless to say, scandal is to be avoided at all costs, so Chun-Ryung, the court nurse, is under great pressure to sweep the affair under the rug. In defiance of her own interests, Chun-Ryung becomes a reluctant sleuth, pursuing the case (officially deemed a suicide) as suspicion falls on highly placed members of the court.

Palace is a well-crafted period mystery, featuring some great performances, starting with Park Jin-Hee as the nurse-investigator. However, some of the abuse meted out on the young maids is literally painful to watch. (Let the squeamish be warned, you might be more comfortable in Tokyo Gore Patrol.) Still, the cinematography and production design are creepily effective, allowing for elements of horror to creep into the mystery, even including the archetypal image of the terrifying woman with long, flowing tresses.

As ruthless as life in the court can be, through Mee-Jeung’s lens, it also represents a rare opportunity for social mobility to common-born women. It is a world where a young girl scrubbing floors can aspire to become a royal concubine, wielding power behind the scenes. It is not an easy climb though, as Palace dramatizes in exquisite detail.

Palace is a smart, compelling film. While uncomfortably graphic at times, its images last well after viewing. It screens this Friday and next Tuesday, as part of NYAFF.

NYAFF: Action Boys

No animals were harmed in the filming of the Korean documentary Action Boys (or at least not that many). However, the stuntmen took a tremendous beating. Former stuntman turned filmmaker Jung Byung-Gil follows seven of his fellow 2004 stunt school graduates (and himself to an extent) as they are chewed up by the Korean film industry in Action Boys, screening at NYAFF this Friday (6/27) and the following Thursday (7/3).

Byung-Gil and his friends started in a group of thirty-six prospective students. Only sixteen graduated, and by the time Action was filming, just the eight friends were still somewhat active in the business. It is not hard to see why, as their work involves constant physical pain. Time and again the proper safety equipment is mysteriously missing, but the cameras roll anyway.

Action shows behind-the-scenes footage from several Korean films, the best-known of which to American audiences will probably be Bong Joon-Ho’s The Host, in which the acrophobic stuntman Kwon Gui-Duck has to jump off a bridge. For some reason, the stuntmen’s assignments always seem to play to their fears and weaknesses.

The young stuntmen apparently live rootless lives, but it would not be right to call them slackers, as the have the daylights kicked out of them for a mediocre living. Some frankly, appear a little odd. Jeon Sye-jin for instance, is basically a screw-up for whom getting a simple tattoo becomes an epic comedy of errors. Director Byung-Gil himself often looks a little off, particularly in his audition tape, during which he is admonished for looking “spooky” and “dreadful,” (but give him credit for having a sense of humor about it).

Not all the action boys seem so socially underdeveloped. Kwak Jin-Seock appears to have a very healthy relationship with his family, including a mother he can joke about his profession with. You do feel bad for his little niece though, who becomes visibly upset when she sees her uncle getting killed on television, as shown in one scene that feels inappropriately exploitative.

One thing is clear from watching Action. Either the Korea’s version of OSHA is completely defanged, or for some reason their film industry is exempt from the rules. Yet Byung-Gil and his friends still seem to have a perverse affection for it. Action was clearly a shoe-string enterprise, but Byung-Gil and his crew were able to cover an impressive amount of ground. It might be a small film, but it often displays a weird charm. Byung-Gil, Jin-Seock, and producer Lee Ji-Youn are scheduled to attend the 7/3 screening.

NYAFF: Kala

It rains a lot in Indonesia—perfect film noir weather. Screening tonight at the New York Asian Film Festival, Joko Anwar’s Kala (Dead Time) has plenty of noir, wrapped up in a horror movie, with a fair amount of existential dread thrown in (trailer here).

As the film opens, a particularly grisly vigilante attack has gone down and two cops, Eros and his older partner Sutrisno, must investigate the charred debris. The nature of the attack shakes the hard boiled detectives, leading Eros to ask if “our nature is just like this?” Coming late to the carnage is the narcoleptic Janus, a reporter in danger of losing his job because of his condition. While following up at the morgue, Janus has another untimely spell, but his tape recorder fatefully captures the film’s macguffin.

Kala is in large measure an Indonesian combination of The Ring and National Treasure, by way of the Coen Brothers. Like The Ring, Kala is most effective when the fear builds through suggestion and suspense. When the supernatural being is actually seen, it loses much of its power. The trigger for each bloodletting also somewhat parallels that of The Ring, but leads to a particularly clever obliteration of a government death squad. In fact, much of the gore in Kala is kept just off-screen (or pouring through crevices after the fact).

Although set in an unspecified time and place resembling Indonesia, Kala creates its own history as part of a fable of the wise “first president” and the treasure he hid for the future glory of his country. Seen only briefly in deliberately blurry newspaper photos, he does not seem to suggest to Sukarno, who probably would have had others ideas of what to do with riches untold, besides waiting for destiny to claim it.

Director Anwar creates some dramatically creepy scenes and his script ties together each story element in a conclusion that bears up under post-viewing scrutiny reasonably well (especially for a horror movie). The woeful Janus is a bit of a one-note sad sack, but as Eros and Sutrisno, Ario Bayu and Frans Tumbuan play their world weary cops with intelligence and nuance.

Kala has a lot of style and it consistently respects the internal logic of its story (of course with allowances made for characters’ occasional superhuman feats). For horror fans, it is well worth checking out tonight and Thursday, when at screens at the IFC Center as part of NYAFF.

The Devil, Skip James, and the Blues

I’d Rather Be the Devil: Skip James and the Blues
By Stephen Calt
Chicago Review Press

Some bluesmen were born legends, never playing a false note throughout their uncompromising careers, if you believe the hagiography written about them. The truth is always more nuanced. In the recently republished I’d Rather Be the Devil, Stephen Calt gives an unvarnished depiction of the so-called “folk-blues movement,” the sycophantic blues fans who created it, the plantation system that gave rise to many “country” bluesmen, and even his subject, Skip James, which pretty much covers all the bases of a blues biography.

Calt developed a complicated friendship with James, recording hours of interviews with the musician. Evidently, James often made demands on Calt, coming to rely on his assistance, but probably opened up to the younger man more than he realized. It seems safe to say Calt was left with mixed feelings about the experience, writing of their fateful meeting: “Had I known how our lives would intersect over the next four years, I would not have initiated that initial conversation.” (p. 265)

The Skip James Calt describes was a man conflicted between the sacred and profane—a great bluesman (at least in his early years) and reasonably successful bootlegger, but an underachiever as a minister. Calt often suggests elements of hypocrisy in James’ “nihilistic Christianity,” described as a “vigorous, vainglorious exercise in self-deceit.” (p. 180)

Biographer and subject first met at the Newport Folk Festival. However, the term “folk-blues” is essentially a meaningless marketing term to Calt, describing the sort of dead-end coffeehouse gigs that booked “re-discovered” blues artists like James. Calt argues:

“By 1950, when Leadbelly died, it was clear what a folk singer was, as opposed to what was written about him. He was someone unemployable as a singer in any other context.” (p. 255)

The author is downright withering when examining the frequently patronizing and often avaricious behavior of 1960’s blues geeks. Calt does make a notable exception for James McKune, the eccentric record collector who largely shaped the aesthetic tastes that would be codified under the “country blues” rubric. However, his assessment of cult-musician John Fahey, who was responsible for re-launching James’s blues career, is particularly pointed:

“James was treated as a trophy of the tiny Takoma label, which had only one record on the market (by Booker White) and had been created with a view towards providing a forum for its founder John Fahey. It is doubtful that anyone in James’ retinue was even aware of the fact that the singer was capable of self-interest, or entitled to exercise it.” (p. 272)

The one aspect of the Skip James story for which Calt displays an unequivocal enthusiasm are his early recordings for the storied but short-lived Paramount label. Calt identifies James as unique in the blues field for his equal mastery of both guitar and piano (as opposed to a mere workmanlike doubling). Calt also suggests:

“James was able to add a loftier ingredient that gave his songs an ethereal quality: a sense of drama, all but absent elsewhere in the blues genre.” (p. 144)

One might speculate that writing Devil was somewhat cathartic for Calt. From online interviews it seems he does not consider the book to be as critical or ambiguous as it might read to others. Regardless, it makes for compelling reading and an interesting corrective to the many fawning blues volumes also on the market.

NYAFF: Shadow Spirit

Welcome to post-war Japan, but watch your daughters. A psychopath is dismembering teen-aged girls and packing them in boxes. There are indeed such elements of the macabre in The Shadow Spirit, but it is tempered by its careful period detail and pulp magazine-inspired sense of adventure and mystery. Directed by veteran Japanese filmmaker Masato Harada, Shadow Spirit (trailer here) opens the New York Asian Film Festival today, kicking off seventeen days of screenings at the IFC Film Center and the Japan Society.

The difficult to briefly encapsulate story of Spirit starts when Enokizu, a clairvoyant detective, is hired to find the kidnapped daughter of a famous actress poised to make a comeback. Eventually, his inquiry dovetails with the concurrent dismemberment investigations by detectives Aoki and Kiba and journalists Sekiguchi and Atsuko. Kyogokudo, an exorcist and antiquarian book-seller, provides Zen-like leadership for the disparate band of heroes as they face the forces of evil, which seem to include not just the serial killer, but a mysterious new religious cult dedicated to the Box of Sacred Mystery and an evil scientist playing God in his box-like fortress (yes, the box motif looms large in Spirit).

Spirit is a film of dark secrets, in which events of the past have a tangible effect on the present. In fact, much of the nefarious doings have their roots in bizarre events set in motion by the Japanese military during the war. Ironically, Spirit implies greater criticism of Japanese actions in WWII than recent Hollywood films.

At one point Sekiguchi, the button-down writer sighs: “Don’t drag me into your weirdness.” Good luck with that. Spirit has plenty of weirdness, throwing in fantastical elements and a few disturbing images of the killer’s surviving limbless victims. Fortunately, the cast pulls you through with their earnestness, particularly the gaunt but compelling Hiroshi Abe as the extra-sensory detective, and Rena Tanaka, whose plucky cub reporter is cute but not cloying.

Spirit is a fast-paced, stylish film that pretty much throws in the kitchen sink, but is loath to waste much time with exposition, with characters’ past relationships quickly glossed over. You sort of have to go with it. Director Harada juxtaposes splashy, colorful visuals with rain-soaked noir, creating a great looking picture. Spirit is the second stand-alone film based on a series of Japanese mysteries by Natsuhiko Kyogoku, the first of which appears to be scheduled for U.S. publication in the winter 2009 season. It is an entertaining start to the festival, playing this afternoon and again on July 1st.

Distances from England

Distances
By Norma Winstone
ECM Records 2028

When Norma Winstone performs at Joe’s Pub next Thursday, it will be an opportunity to hear another European jazz artist who does not frequently perform in America. It will also be a pretty rare opportunity to hear a member of the Order of the British Empire in performance, since the MBE was bestowed on Winstone last year (when most of the Queen's Honours recipients were overshadowed by the Rushdie knighthood). Preceding Norma Winstone MBE to American shores, her latest CD, Distances, is itself an intimate listening experience.

The almost title track “Distance” establishes the dreamy mood right from the start through Winstone’s breathy vocals and the eerie accompaniment of Klaus Gesing on bass clarinet and Glauco Venier on piano. Winstone’s lyrics reinforce the sense of existential mystery, speaking of “weightless wanderers” “turning in heights of invisible air” above “a city of unfathomed streets below.”

Many of Winstone’s songs read like prose poems, but she also includes one standard and a pop cover. She wrings all the regret imaginable out of Cole Porter’s “Every Time We Say Goodbye,” underscored by Gesing’s plaintive soprano. A Peter Gabriel song again proves to be a surprisingly hospitable vehicle for reinvention in a jazz context. “Here Comes the Flood” is a beautiful example of Winstone’s subtle but dramatic vocal interpretation and the sympathetic support of Gesing and Venier.

Winstone’s band-mates are more than just hired accompanists. They really sound like a cohesive unit together, with the conceptions of each shaping the music of Distances. Gesing and Venier both penned music for two originals, and the three collaborated on a spontaneous composition. Venier’s “The Mermaid” probably exhibits the most buoyant jazz solo of the session provided by the composer, egged on by Gesing’s bass clarinet. While a bit at odds with Winstone’s mournful lyrics, it makes for an appealing interlude in her tale. Gesing also should get credit just for taking a soprano saxophone anywhere near “Giant’s Gentle Stride,” their reworking of Coltrane’s “Giant Steps” and he actually solos quite eloquently.

Distances concludes with “A Song for England,” the trio’s impromptu calypso setting of an Andrew Salkey poem, which ascribes the neurosis of the English to their depressing weather. Simultaneously humorous and triumphant, it is a pitch-perfect post-modern national anthem. One could easily envision it running over the end titles of future British films to express both irony and affection.

Distances has a deceptively sparse atmosphere, from which many exciting musical moments unfold. It is an intriguing session that stays in your head long after listening. It is definitely a recommended CD, some songs of which are likely to be interpreted live by Winstone’s group, during two sets at Joe’s Pub on June 26th.

Brick Lane Opens

Abuse stemming from arranged marriages in the Islamic world has been largely ignored by the media. Horror stories like that of Shafilea Ahmed are becoming increasingly common in Europe, so one would think the practice would offer powerful grist for cinematic drama. Despite some initial suggestions to the contrary, Brick Lane does not pick up that gauntlet. Opening Friday in New York, Lane is a very well acted, but confused and contradictory film that ultimately shrinks from causing offense to any inclined to take umbrage (trailer here).

As it opens, Lane, named for the London neighborhood traditionally home to successive immigrant communities, appears willing to honestly address the realities of life for Muslim women. Following her mother’s drowning suicide, teenaged Nazneen is sent from her idyllic Bangladeshi village to London in an arranged marriage with an older man she has never met. Director Sarah Gavron then flash-forwards sixteen years, finding Nazneen still married to Chanu, a corpulent blowhard, with two westernized teenaged daughters.

All the terms of the marriage, including those of their marriage bed, favor Chanu. She gives, he takes. However, when he rashly quits his position after being passed over for a promotion, he has difficulty holding up his minimal end of the bargain. As a result, she takes on piecemeal seamstress work to help make ends meet. In doing so, she meets the younger, passionate Karim, experiencing forbidden love at extreme risk to her position in the Bangladeshi community.

As Nazneen, Tannishta Chatterjee’s performance is flat-out remarkable. Unfortunately, the entire film comes crashing down around her. While Lane starts as a fairly eloquent portrayal of a lonely and loveless arranged marriage, a radical about-face comes late in the film, undermining Nazneen’s presumed motivations and making her final decision completely inexplicable.

When portraying Muslim characters, Lane treads ever so lightly, taking extreme pains to avoid offense. When the September 11th attacks occur, their only significance in the film is the admittedly legitimate concern about anti-Muslim backlashes. When Chanu challenges the rhetoric of the increasingly radicalized Karim at a meeting, the characters and film essentially just shrug it off. In the end, the very practice of arranged marriage is in effect exonerated, even glorified. Frankly, the only Islamic character Lane is willing to cast in a consistently negative light is the usurious Mrs. Islam—an evil capitalist.

Along the way Gavron and DP Robbie Ryan create some striking visuals. However, Lane is at heart the cinematic equivalent of an Oprah book (it is actually based on a novel by Monica Ali), boasting sensitivity to all, but deathly afraid of offending anyone, no matter how extreme. In the process, tremendous performances by Chatterjee and Satish Kaushik as Chanu are undercut by the weaknesses of the script. It opens Friday in New York at the Sunshine.

HRW: Letter to Anna

If ever there was a woman who personified strength, dignity, and a commitment to human rights, it was Anna Politkovskaya, the crusading Russian journalist assassinated for investigating the neo-Soviet Putin regime. Unfortunately, there is not much human rights watching going on at the Human Rights Watch Film Festival, besides Letter to Anna, Eric Bergkraut’s dogged documentary investigation into her death (trailer here).

Of the thirty two films at the HRW Fest, five focus their fire on Israel and four concentrate on America, clearly safe targets to shoot at. Few films at the fest, besides Letter, tackle a government perfectly willing to murder those who questions its policies, as in the case of Politkovskaya in Putin’s Russia. (To be fair, it sounds like China’s Stolen Children also deserves recognition for taking on the country’s one child policy, but the fest completely ignores Iran, Cuba, Venezuela, and North Korea.) However, the sins of the festival should not be held against Letter, a first-rate documentary.

When Politkovskaya looks into the camera and tells Bergkraut she expects to be killed, it is spooky. Obviously, she knew what she was talking about, having already survived a poisoning attempt (evidently no Polonium was available to those would-be assassins). Politkovskaya made her name exposing human rights abuses (real ones) in Chechnya, again nearly getting killed in the process. It was while filming a documentary on the Russian Dirty War that Bergkraut filmed hours of interview footage with Politkovskaya, which formed the backbone of Letter.

Although one could uncharitably characterize Letter as a film built around outtakes, much of that footage is quite insightful. Perhaps most controversial will be his decision to begin by taking the audience through her assassination step by step. As Bergkraut marshals the facts and circumstances around the event he makes a compelling case against the Putin machine. By American legal standards, he would probably have enough to indict, but not convict. Of course, on a common sense level, the notion that a free-agent in Putin’s Russia would take out a prominent Putin critic without the go-ahead from the highest levels, stretches all believability.

Things are bad in Russia—no question. Relatively few have been willing to publically challenge Putin’s authoritarian rule. Some of those who did join Politkovskaya, like democracy activist Garry Kasparov, participated in the film. We also hear from expat billionaire Boris Berezovsky, perhaps a problematic anti-Putin spokesman, but always a good interview.

Letter would make for good, if depressing, companion viewing with Poisoned By Polonium, as Litvinenko appears in the former and Politkovskaya is also featured in the latter. Politkovskaya had everything to live for, having just heard she was about to become a grandmother. However, she never backed down in her attempts to hold Putin’s government accountable for its crimes. If you want to see what “patriotic dissent” looks like, Politkovskaya is its human face.

Bergkraut makes another credible case against Putin’s criminal reign, and give Susan Sarandon credit for recording the English narration (and Catherine Deneuve for the French), but are people paying attention to the increasingly frightening developments in Russia? Letter screens only once during the fifteen day film festival, Thursday the 26th, at Lincoln Center’s Walter Reade Theater.

(Thanks again to La Russophobe for sharing this review with their readers.)

J.B. Spins Interview with TOMOKO

Today J.B. Spins inaugurates an occasional interview feature of emerging jazz artists, by immediately breaking format. I first heard TOMOKO sing at St. Peter’s, but strictly speaking, she is more of a soul and R&B vocalist. Her recent high-profile gigs include a booking at the Blue Note. To get a sense of her music, watch her video “Love Me” on youtube here.

JB: How familiar were you with New York before you moved from Osaka? How difficult was that transition? Could it be called a leap of faith?

T: My very first visit to New York was a one-week trip about a year prior to eventually settling down here. Osaka people are brave and relentless. The first night I went straight to 125th Street—the Apollo theater—and went into the Amateur night, it happened to be Wednesday. They had a Step-Up-to-the Mic segment, so I raised my hand and sang a song by Monica (popular R&B tune then), and had a great response.

My mentality was always different, and when I came to New York, I felt like this was my real home. Yes, I can call it a leap of faith because until I got here, I really did not have any particular person or place or business plan to count on, not to mention having just few dollars in my pocket. But I have done all I could do in Japanese show business till that point, and I totally felt the need to break free and expand myself in New York in order to become an authentic artist of this genre. And after I did so, I realized this was my destiny.

JB: At your own gigs, you are essentially singing soul, but I have heard you perform in jazz contexts as well. Are you looking for opportunities to blend genre distinctions?

T: Such a timely question! I have always tried to present myself as an “R&B singer” only because our business requires and expects you to belong to one genre. It made me feel that it was important to declare my style and where I belong as an artist, and maybe it still is important. But in my opinion “rhythm and blues” lives in every musicians and singers hearts. And it has branched out of jazz, gospel, blues and rock, or maybe pop or even country music for that matter. And the branches have even expanded into hip hop.

I have always been a fan of all these genres, especially crossover jazz and smooth jazz, such as George Benson, Al Jarreau, Rachelle Ferrell, Anita Baker, George Duke, Natalie Cole, Sade, Joe Sample, Herbie Hancock, Lalah Hathaway, etc. And when my debut CD Organically Afro Asiatic released, so many people responded to what they called a “very jazzy smooth R&B feel.” So yes I recognize my niche, and am looking into the genre blending to some degree.

JB: The great jazz trombonist Wycliffe Gordon was the executive-producer of your CD. How did you first meet?

T: I met his younger brother who was at that time stationed in Navy in Tokyo, starting out as a rapper also, and we performed on the same stage at a hip hop showcase in Yokohama! He always told me about his big brother Wycliffe, and after I came to New York, I got to know him backstage, and the bond was instant and he treated me like family because of that.

He is very versatile. He's from Atlanta, his roots are also blues and R&B, and all that fusion. And you can say the same for my producer Jamba. Wycliffe is my executive producer along with me, but not on the creative side for this CD. But he did play trombone with other horn players on my tracks #1 and #4. And it was very natural to everyone not worrying about what particular genre we were playing. We were focusing on squeezing together a collection of tasty notes.

JB: To give readers a better sense of who you are, maybe we can close with your favorite CD, jazz CD, book, and film?

T: I honestly think that Stevie Wonder's trilogy: The Songs in the Key Of Life, Inner Visons, and Hotter Than July, are the best three albums in my collection, ever. My other favorite R&B CDs are gonna be difficult to narrow down.

First old school: Marvin Gaye’s What's Going On, Donny Hathaway (self titled), Roberta Flack & Donny Hathaway, Cheryl Lynn (self titled), Earth Wind & Fire (I just can’t mention only one, just too many), Stylistics Greatest Love Hits, Isley Brothers' Groove with You.

New school: Black Street (self titled), Kipper Jones' Ordinary Story, Total (self titled), Lauryn Hill's The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill, Raul Midon's State of Mind, Billy Porter’s Untitled, Freddie Jackson's Transitions And oh, do you know the CD by Phillip Bailey Soul on Jazz? This is what we are talking about—blending the two genre, such a great CD.

My favorite jazz CDs: Nina Simone’s Broadway Blues Ballads, Miles Davis's Kind of Blue, George Benson's Breezin,' but I love all of his CDs. All of them! Louis Armstrong & Duke Ellington's Great Summit: the Master Takes, and Dee Dee Bridgewater's Live in Paris. And I have copies of all my favorite albums of Dinah Washington and Sarah Vaughan on cassette tapes.

Books: Conversations with God by Neal Donald Walsh, Ask and It is Given by Esther and Jerry Hicks, A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle—the best book I have ever read!

Movies: All 6 films of Rocky series! Ultimate American Dream! And my most fav classic forever: The Way We Were!

JB: From a blogger known only by his initials, to the single-named TOMOKO (remember that’s all caps), thanks for taking the time to be the first interview here. You can often hear TOMOKO live in New York and you can purchase her CD here.

Jazz Score: Martial Solal

“If A Bout de Souffle didn’t exist, nobody would think its music was particularly interesting.” So Martial Solal says in the liner notes to a French collection of his film soundtracks. That film is known to English speaking audiences as Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless, the watershed film of the French New Wave, regarded as much for its perceived revolutionary aesthetics as for its own cinematic merits. However, Solal himself played no originals, cinematic or otherwise, during his concert at MoMA last night as part of the Jazz Score series, opting instead for a program of standards.

Even though the recently arrived Solal explained it was 2:30 in the morning by his time, he was in the mood to play, performing approximately two hours, including a lengthy encore. He was truly in the mood to play “Caravan,” playing two significantly different versions in a row and later head-faking the audience with a sizeable quote from the Tizol standard before starting a completely different tune.

Solal is still at the top of his game, simultaneously playful and explorative. His approach to standards can be almost cubist, but he always brings things back into the pocket. He and bassist François Moutin were perfectly in-synch playing together, though at times Solal seemed to be changing things up to make things interesting. “He’ll get tired before I will,” he told the crowd.

Solal’s wit came through in both his music and his banter, delighting a sold out house. Those who return tomorrow can screen Breathless, Godard’s radically influential directorial debut (music-less trailer here). Loosely based on a treatment by François Truffaut, crediting Claude Chabrol as a technical advisor, and featuring Jean-Pierre Melville in a supporting role, Breathless is the end product of contributions from at least four major French directors, but Godard is the unquestioned auteur.

Breathless is nihilism triumphant, but fascinatingly so. In any other film, Jean-Paul Belmondo’s Michel Poiccard would be a pathetic jerk. For Godard, his accidental violence is his existential redemption. He apes the gangsters of American film noir, particularly Bogart, and after much effort, seduces the not very impressed American Patricia Franchini, played by Jean Seberg. He convinces her to accompany him on the lamb, until she betrays him more or less on a whim. Like Jean-Pierre Léaud’s Marc in Le Départ, Poiccard is an immature young man, who fancies himself a bad customer, but his posturing escalates into full-blown criminality. Solal’s music helps evoke the film noir that influenced both director and character, with themes that swing, but have a hint of menace. Indeed, his main theme, “La Mort” is classic crime jazz.

Breathless has been interpreted as an anti-American statement: a Frenchman seduced by Hollywood images into a life a crime is betrayed by an unfeeling American working for The New York Herald Tribune, an arm of the omnipresent American media. Knowing where Godard went in later films, it is probably a fair interpretation. It hardly needs be said that millions saw those same gangster movies without being similarly effected as Poiccard. They simply had stronger personalities and moral compasses. Of course, that makes them boring to Godard.

Breathless screens again at MoMA this afternoon, as part of the well programmed Jazz Score retrospective. MoMA’s concerts in the series have had a distinctly international flavor, with the French-Algerian Solal following that of Polish trumpeter Tomasz Stanko. Solal does not play in America that often, so hearing him live last night was a rare treat.