DCIFF ’11: Transit Cities

How can a major metropolis simultaneously become larger but less cosmopolitan? Such appears to be the case when Laila Kamel returns to her family home in Amman, Jordan after a long stay in America. Things have changed for the worse in Mohammad Al Hushki’s Transit Cities (trailer here), which has a special one week New York theatrical run in conjunction with the Dialogue of Cultures International Film Festival, beginning this Friday.

After fourteen years, Kamel returns to Amman a divorced woman. It is a personal failure she is not eager to admit to her family. However, her father is not exactly grilling her for information. Broken by his own disappointments and openly contemptuous of her lifestyle choices, he barely speaks to her. Of course, he hardly speaks to anyone, so acute is his depression.

Much too her surprise, Kamel’s mother and sister now wear the hijab in public. Granted, Amman is not Saudi, but the prodigal daughter is shocked by the radical shift in gender role expectations. Not surprisingly, she has a difficult time acclimating to the “new” Jordan. Nor does she win many new friends disdaining religious hypocrisies, like the practice of charging Murabaha or Islamic interest.

It is more than a bit surprising the state chartered Royal Film Commission Jordan would partner in Transit’s production, yet here it is. Indeed, the film portrays Jordan as a society in regression with a distinctly inflationary economy. In this non-usurious environment, coffee for two in a comfortable café will run you sixty dollars (it must be shade-grown fair-trade). However, if Kamel invites over a man for a long night of wine and reminiscing, it is a scandal.

Saba Mubarak makes a strong impression as Kamel, vividly expressing all her mounting frustrations, resentments, and self-doubts. She is a complex character, who sometimes makes matters worse for a host of contradicting motivations, but is never unreasonably unreasonable. Likewise, Ashraf Farah brings assured nuance to the jaded Rabea, her father’s former young colleague, with whom she shares considerable history the film merely hints at. Together, they develop very intriguing not exactly romantic chemistry together.

Only Jordan’s second “indie” production, Transit is quite stylishly put together. Though Al Hushki intimately focuses on Kamel, cinematographer Mahmoud Lofty evocatively captures the mood of dislocated alienation, like a Lost in Translation with a point to it all. Traditional in its instrumentation but often sounding relatively modern in its melodic and harmonic approach, Nadim Sarraj’s score also perfectly suits the film’s between-two-worlds themes.

While clocking-in just over the seventy minute mark, Transit is a wholly engaging and satisfying film (though alas, not necessarily an optimistic one). A shrewd choice to serve as the DCIFF’s showcase selection, it screens for a full week in New York at the Quad Cinema starting this Friday (10/27)—and tickets are only $5.00.

DCIFF ’11: Cirkus Columbia

Communism was supposed to create the “new man.” Somehow it did not take in the former Yugoslavia. Perched on the brink of war, a small Bosnian-Herzegovinian town engages in some major score settling throughout Danis Tanović’s Cirkus Columbia (trailer here), which opens the inaugural Dialogue of Cultures International Film Festival, a new nomadic festival devoted to themes of globalization.

In Martin Buntić’s village, the Serbian Communists are on the outs and the politically connected Croatians are in. Much to the surprise of his mother Lucija, this includes her long estranged husband Divko, who has returned from a twenty year exile to evict them from his family home. He also brought along a German trophy fiancé and a considerable bankroll. Supposedly, he will marry her as soon as he divorces Lucija, but it does not seem to hold much urgency for the prodigal father, as the displaced Azra cannot help but notice.

In turn, Martin and his friends certainly notice her. As old man Buntić belatedly tries to play Daddy Warbucks to Martin, at least when not berating him for being such a slacker, the son starts to get ideas about his prospective step-mother. Meanwhile, with the shelling of Dubrovnik reported, choosing sides appears increasingly inevitable. Martin’s surrogate father Ranko Ivanda, an officer in the Serbian dominated People’s Army, is explicitly told to put his ethnic loyalties first, while his best friend enlists with the local Croatian paramilitaries.

Selected by Bosnia-Herzegovina as last year’s official foreign language Oscar submission, Cirkus portrays a considerable amount of ethnic conflict within their borders, but perpetrated by other nationalities. It also presents Germany as a Switzerland-like safe haven, first for the senior Buntić under Communism and later for those seeking to flee ahead of the anticipated carnage.

Petty and manipulative, the audience should loathe Divko Buntić. However, the haggard looking Miki Manojlović humanizes him to a remarkable extent, clearly conveying the emotional weight of his years of alienation. In contrast, Boris Ler’s Martin Buntić comes across like a commercial for Ritalin. What the attractive Azra, played with admirable charm and conviction by Jelena Stupljanin, could see in him is quite the head-scratcher.

Indeed, their Summer of ’42-ish relationship is the weakest link of the film. Rather, Cirkus is most successful capturing the milieu of impending war, as the country appears to hang in mid air, like a towering fly ball at the top of its arc, about to come hurtling down into a maelstrom of violence. (That purple metaphor was dedicated to Tom “Flat Earth” Friedman.)

Frankly, the politics of it all are somewhat tricky to entangle, at least as presented in Cirkus, which is probably appropriately realistic. There is a part of the film that laments the fall of Communism, because it allowed the once unified country to splinter along ethnic lines. Yet, who does it think supplied most of the arms to the Serbian Army and their Bosnian-Serb allies, who committed the worst (but not only) atrocities? At one point, the former Communist mayor expresses regret the Berlin Wall was brought down from the western side. Again, who does he think put it up in the first place? On the other hand, the clear Serbian nationalism of the dissolving Yugoslavian Army is depicted in no uncertain terms.

There are some lovely moments of innocence soon-to-be-lost in Cirkus. Handsomely lensed by cinematographer Walther van de Ende, the film captures the village’s Old European charm and also dramatically illustrates why lifelong citizens would become desperate to leave. Artfully rendered if somewhat uneven, Cirkus is still worth checking out when it opens the DCIFF tomorrow night (10/20) at the SVA Theater and screening again next Monday (10/24) at the Quad Cinema.

SDAFF ’11: Bloodtraffick (short)

Two of the hottest topics in fiction ostensibly written for teens but really read by adults are angels and vampires. Ava Chen is neither, but she is only too aware they both exist in Jennifer Thym’s sleek action-horror short film Bloodtraffick (trailer here), which screens at the 2011 San Diego Asian Film Festival.

According to Bloodtraffick’s mythology, angels took human form to wage an earthly battle against the vampires. Unfortunately, the latter rather logically proved to be much more effective hunters, taking the war to the angels instead. Chen’s two sisters are angels, but she is human—another race known for producing killers. Following the trail of her long missing-in-action siblings, Chen comes face-to-face with a sadistic vampire. There will be carnage.

Clearly intended as a prologue to a forthcoming franchise, Bloodtraffick efficiently establishes its Underworld-esque backstory, while announcing the arrival of an intense new vampire slayer. Soon to be seen with Russell Crowe in RZA’s The Man with the Iron Fists, Grace Huang has far more action cred than Buffy or Kate Beckinsale, and is considerably more photogenic than either. Frankly, the prospective of watching her mow down the undead looks pretty bullet proof.

Thym’s execution in Bloodtraffick is also quite strong. Deftly capitalizing on the creepy burnt-out industrial setting, she keeps the action gritty and the adrenaline pumping, but also invests the film with some pretty heavy archetypal imagery. Without question, this is professional grade filmmaking.

After watching Bloodtraffick, viewers will definitely want to see a full feature outing for Chen, which is really the best recommendation for a film like this. Combining stylish action, an intriguing premise, and a fanboy pleasing heroine, it certainly has all the elements. Definitely recommended, Bloodtraffick screens with Sion Sono’s Cold Fish this Friday (10/21) and the Friday following (10/28) at the 2011 SDAFF. It also screens at the 2011 Philadelphia Asian American Film Festival on November 5th, along with JP Chan’s cool Digital Antiquities, as part of Shorts Program 1.

Glow in the Dark Wolves

Driven to tame nature, the Soviet government declared war on wolves during its “land improvement” binges. Yet ironically, the Soviet Union’s greatest ecological disaster would eventually provide a safe haven for the wolves of Chernobyl. A group of German, Ukrainian, and Belarusian scientists track the apparently thriving wolf packs living around the notorious nuclear reactor in Klaus Feichtenberger’s Radioactive Wolves (promo here), the winner of the best habitat program award at the 2011 Jackson Hole Wildlife Film Festival, which kicks off the new season of Nature on PBS tomorrow night.

They really are radioactive. As a result, the scientists studying the wolves are limited in the amount of time they can spend in the wide no-man’s land surrounding Chernobyl and must take precautions not to ingest hair particles when interacting with the animals. Surprisingly, despite the initial devastation caused by the meltdown, the area has become a sheltered Eden for wildlife. As the top predators, the health of the wolves necessarily implies every creature below them in the food chain is also flourishing.

Radioactive largely follows the traditional format for nature films, mainly observing the wolves in their habitat and the scientists’ efforts to collar and examine them, with some explanatory narration from Harry Smith. However, it rather forthrightly addresses the Soviets’ massive assault on the environment, draining marshes to create a habitat-devastating system of canals. Nor does it paint a particularly flattering portrait of the Soviet response to the mounting Chernobyl debacle.

Feichtenberger and crew captured some truly striking images of the once bustling Pripyat ghost city, now reclaimed by the indigenous wildlife. Frankly, Radioactive is a somewhat bold production, because it largely undercuts the anti-nuclear campaign’s propaganda of scorched earth and lifeless wastelands as the inevitable consequence of nuclear power. Granted, humans cannot live in the zone, but nature has rebounded, reversing the damage of years of state economic planning.

Though twenty-five years have passed since the Chernobyl disaster, it is still too early for the scientists in Radioactive to make many sweeping conclusions. Still, it seems safe to say the reality is far better than nearly anyone would expect. Offering a rare opportunity to see an area where few humans will ever tread (much like the theatrical documentaries Cave of Forgotten Dreams and Into Eternity), Radioactive is exactly the sort of programming public television was intended to present. It airs this Wednesday (10/19) on PBS as part of the new season of Nature.

(Photos: Klaus Feichtenberger)

Brothers, Champions, Sportsmen: Klitschko

Mother Klitschko is no fun. She expressly prohibited her boxer sons Vitali and Wladimir from fighting each other. Of course, that is exactly what the boxing world wants to see. Sebastian Dehnhardt profiles the two well educated Ukrainian brothers who rose to the top of the boxing ranks, got knocked down, and clawed their way back in the simply but aptly titled documentary Klitschko (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Growing up military brats, the Klitschko brothers’ father was an ardent Communist. However, he would pay for his blind faith, when his unit responded to the Chernobyl crisis without adequate protective gear. Fortunately, when his cancer inevitably surfaced, the Klitschkos already had sufficient means to provide their father with the best of western medicine. Not coincidentally, the now cancer-free Col. Klitschko has had a complete ideological change of heart, at least according to his sons.

Though not technically twins, the Klitschko boys were always big and nearly impossible to tell apart. The older Vitali actually started out as a kick-boxer while so-called “Western martial arts” were forbidden in the Orwellian Soviet Union. Eventually, the Klitschkos switched to boxing, where fighters could make serious money. Due to inopportune injuries, they lost several high profile bouts they should have won. The elder Klitschko was especially dogged by the quitter epithet. Yet, both brothers would have their Rocky moments in the ring.

Klitschko the film is definitely produced with boxing fans in mind. However, those who follow post-Soviet politics will also find Dehnhardt’s documentary engaging. A reformer, the elder Klitschko was even elected to the Kiev City Council for two stormy terms. It also offers an illuminating perspective on the Chernobyl crisis, which is still not well understood in the west.

Not surprisingly, Dehnhardt shows a whole lot of fight scenes, but he lucidly establishes the dramatic import of each match and the quality of the footage is uniformly high. When a Klitschko connects, it definitely looks like it hurts. In addition to the Klitschkos and their parents, he also includes extensive commentary from their contemporaries in the ring, many of whom, like Chris Byrd (and his young son) are truly gracious sportsmen on-camera. Frankly, the film has no villains, per se (except perhaps the delegate who inexplicably took a swing at Vitali Kilitschko during a heated council session). Indeed, Dehnhardt argues the lack of a flashy nemesis has prevented the pugilist brothers from getting their proper due. Of course, they can hardly go back in time and fight Ali in his prime.

While they are certainly imposing, the Brothers Klitschko are clearly smart and articulate, shrewdly making the effort to connect with the film’s audience. Briskly paced and quite informative, Klitschko was easily the most entertaining documentary at this year’s Tribeca Film Festival. Highly recommended, it opens theatrically this Friday (10/21) in New York at the AMC Empire.

Hippy Daddy: Donor Unknown

JoEllen Marsh’s family does not yet have their own definition-expanding sitcom, but considering the attrition rate of the new fall season, there should be many open slots next year. In fact, she probably has enough half-siblings to make it a hit by themselves. Marsh was conceived through the use of “donated” sperm and Jeffrey Harrison, her hippy dad, was a busy donor. Harrison finally meets some of the children he begat but never fathered in Jerry Rothwell’s Donor Unknown (trailer here), which airs this Thursday on PBS’s Independent Lens.

One of Marsh’s Pennsylvanian mothers can trace her ancestry back to the early days of the republic. On her father’s side, she only had a number, “Donor 150” at the California Cryobank. That was Harrison, a former stripper turned hippy beach bum. “Donor” is not exactly the right term. At the height of his “giving,” Harrison was getting up to fifty dollars a toss, so to speak, as often as four times per week. Yet, he was somehow rather shocked to discover he had quite a brood out there in the world.

Harrison’s anonymity was scrupulously protected by the Cryobank, but Marsh was still able to connect with a half-sister through a donor-sibling on-line search site. Slowly, more Donor 150 half-siblings turned up, but when Marsh shared her story for a New York Times piece, the floodgates opened. Harrison also chanced across the paper, learning of Marsh for the first time. Congratulations dude, you’re a father.

There is no getting around Harrison’s problematic nature, though Rothwell tries his hardest. When we are first introduced to him, Harrison is presented as a free-spirited animal lover, a St. Francis of Venice Beach. Slowly, we get a sense that this man is compulsively irresponsible and perhaps a bit self-delusional. However, at about the halfway point, Harrison launches into an unsettling rant of conspiracy theory paranoia. (One wonders if Rothwell was protecting him, keeping the really ugly stuff on the cutting room floor).

Frankly, there is way too much of Harrison in Unknown. The real story seems to be Marsh, who appears to be an intelligent and personable young woman, no thanks to him (or perhaps because of his absence). The way she forges real and meaningful ties of family and friendship with her donor-siblings is very cool, perhaps even inspirational. Whereas the long anticipated meeting with Harrison is mostly just anti-climatic.

With the very possibility relatively new, the evolution of donor-sibling relationships is fascinating to watch, accounting for the most rewarding sequences in Unknown. Not coincidentally, these are far stronger than the Donor 150 children’s budding “friendships” with their biological father. Indeed, in any film, hippies just are not that interesting. Recommended (but with some light fast-forwarding during Harrison’s scenes), Unknown hits airwaves this Thursday (10/20) as part of the current season of Independent Lens.

Hard Passage from Mexico: Cargo

Our lax border enforcement carries a terrible human price. An estimated 17,500 people, primarily women and children, will pay it each year when they are trafficked into this country, primarily (but not entirely) for purposes of sexual slavery. Natasha is one of those nameless women, who will endure a hard passage from Mexico to Brooklyn. Shining a spotlight on an important issue law enforcement around the world have had difficulty coming to grips with, Yan Vizinberg’s Cargo (trailer here) opens this Friday in New York.

Yes, perhaps Natasha should have known better, but she is hardly the first woman to be lured into bondage by the promise of a better life. The combination of international preferences for Russian and Eastern European women coupled with the economic stagnation of hardline holdover countries like Russia, Moldova, and Belarus have created an epidemic of human traffickers targeting their region. At least Natasha begins to suspect something is wrong shortly after she lands in Mexico.

Though beaten and threatened, Natasha is not a willing victim. She will make things difficult for Sayed, the Muslim Egyptian driver tasked with conveying her from Texas to New York. Unfortunately for him, she has more fight in her than his previous cargo. When forced by circumstances to bring her forward into the passenger seat, Natasha confronts him directly with the moral and practical implications of his actions.

It is in these smartly written verbal cat-and-mouse scenes that Cargo works best. Unlike some thematically related films like The Whistleblower, Natasha’s refusal to meekly submit adds a somewhat empowering element. However, events unfold in the third act that tax credibility, appearing to happen just to take the story to a specific place.

Natasha Rinis and Sayed Badreya carry the dramatic load quite capably, portraying the captor-and-captive dynamic with real nuance. Rinis is particularly poignant expressing Natasha’s fear and self-recriminations. Still, a bit of tightening would not have hurt the film, such as the too frequent exterior shots of Sayed’s van prowling down the interstate. The late blossoming of his conscience also seems a bit forced, particularly given his established gender attitudes.

Although a bit unpolished technically, Cargo certainly makes some important and timely points. Thanks to Rinis’s brave performance, it puts a human face on a global problem that shamefully exists here as well. Indeed, it is a film worth remembering whenever the importance of border security is minimized. Sobering but worth seeing for the work of Rinis and Badreya, Cargo opens this Friday (10/21) in New York at the Quad Cinema.

Kaurismaki’s Le Havre

As the home of smugglers and cutthroats, ports are always the perfect setting for hardboiled crime drama. However, not Aki Kaurismäki’s Le Havre. It is nothing like the French film noir of Henri-Georges Clouzot, perhaps because Kaurismäki is Finnish. Instead, the marginalized roughnecks inhabit a quietly whimsical and deeply humanistic community in Kaurismäki’s Le Havre (trailer here), a crowd pleaser at this year’s New York Film Festival (now with cool new poster art by Italian comic artist Manuele Fior), which opens this Friday in New York at the IFC Center.

Marcel Marx works the streets as a shoe-shiner in the tradition of Jacques Tati. He never had much money nor any worries before his beloved wife Arletty is hospitalized. Shielded from her fatal prognosis, he is at loose ends puttering about the waterfront, until he chances across Idrissa, a young illegal African immigrant hoping to be reunited with his parents in England.

Initially, he merely leaves some food for the boy. Then he opens his home to the sad-eyed Idrissa. Before long, Marx (hmm, heavy name, that) and his salt of the earth comrades are working in concert to help their furtive guest elude Monet, the dour flatfoot.

Granted, a thumbnail description of Le Havre probably sounds rather unappetizingly didactic. However, Kaurismäki astutely employs a light touch with the material, emphasizing the inherent innocence and charm of Marx and Idrissa. Unlike far too many filmmakers, he seems to understand the old adage about catching more flies with honey. He also recognizes and capitalizes on the considerable charisma of his proletarian leads.

The twinkle in André Wilms’ eyes could light up a city block, yet he still invests Marx with a wonderful sense of dignity and a genuine élan. In contrast, Jean-Pierre Darroussin is his near total inverse as Monet, projecting an exquisitely French fatalism. As a bonus, cinematic Francophiles should keep their eyes peeled for Truffaut and Godard regular Jean-Pierre Léaud in a brief but fittingly idiosyncratic cameo.

Yet, it is the look and feel of the city itself that will dominate viewers’ impressions of the film. Cinematographer Timo Salminen gives Le Havre a warm glow that is inviting and nostalgic, while the back alleys rendered by Wouter Zoon’s design team look ideally suited for dancing in the rain.

Though never tackily melodramatic or cloyingly quirky, Le Havre has to be one of the most heartfelt, unabashedly old-fashioned films to carry major festival laurels this year. Despite the French setting and dialogue, Finland has chosen their native son’s film as their official submission for the best foreign language Academy Award. It ought to among the top tier of potential candidates, given the subject matter and Kaurismäki’s reputation. Regardless of politics, it is hard not to be swept along by its effervescent spirit. Definitely recommended, it opens this Friday (10/21) in New York at the IFC Center.

NYFF ’11: The Artist

Talking pictures were a truly Schumpeterian phenomenon for Hollywood. As any film lover knows from Singin' in the Rain, some silent movie stars could weather the creative destruction wrought by the transition to sound, whereas some could not. Matinee idol George Valentin was one of those who could not “talk.” Fittingly, his story is a told silently (or nearly so) in The Artist (trailer here), Michel Hazanavicius’s glorious black-and-white homage to the golden age of Hollywood, which screens tonight at the 49th New York Film Festival.

It is 1927. George Valentin is at the height of his popularity as a Douglas Fairbanks style swashbuckler. He has just fought the red menace as an agent of free Georgia in The Russian Affair. However, studio mogul Al Zimmer has something disturbing to show him: synchronized sound. Dismissing the future, Valentin returns to work on his next picture, which will be remembered as the brief screen debut of future superstar Peppy Miller. Obviously thrilled to have any screen time, Miller is particularly excited to share a scene with her favorite star, George Valentin.

When talkies become the standard, Miller’s career takes off like a rocket with frothy romantic comedies. Meanwhile, Valentin’s attempt to finance his own silent comeback vehicle proves disastrous. Yet, Miller’s feelings for yesterday’s leading man remain unchanged.

Hazanavicius consciously draws from dozens of classic films (both pre- and post-Jazz Singer), as well as numerous real larger-than-life Hollywood figures. What follows incorporates elements of A Star is Born, Sunset Boulevard, and Greta Garbo’s relationship with John Gilbert. (Sadly, many modern movie-goers will miss the allusions, but perhaps the notion of a film without diegetic sound might be a brand new novelty item for them.)

The work of many artists, the film is a visual splendor, beginning with Guillaume Schiffman’s lush and moody black-and-white cinematography, which makes the elegant sets and costumes softly glow like a Cecil Beaton portrait. Still, it is the depth of Hazanavicius’s screenplay that really distinguishes The Artist.

Not merely a series of winks at TCM watchers, the film is quite a touching love story, completely free of irony. On the two occasions he breaks format, sound is used in creative ways that cleverly advance the film. Periodically, Hazanavicius also appears to indulge in a witty in-joke, yet in each case, their dramatic logic quickly catches us by surprise. Likewise, while his intertitles have a simplicity befitting the period, they convey a surprising richness of meaning.

Familiar to American audiences from the French OSS spy spoofs, Jean Dujardin gives another very physical performance here, but the complexity and pathos of his Valentin is in a whole different league. Indeed, it is a tricky proposition to play a mugging actor without ever mugging for the camera, yet he is never overly broad or over the top, keeping the faded movie star acutely human throughout. He also develops some endearing romantic chemistry with Bérénice Bejo as Miller.

Frankly, the Argentine-French Bejo is about the only person working in film today who can approximate the glamorous look of Hollywood in its heyday (yes, this definitely includes Michelle Williams). Exquisite and vulnerable, she deserves a bit of award attention along with Dujardin, the best actor winner at this year’s Cannes. In contrast, the American supporting cast does not have much to do, but John Goodman’s cigar-chomping shtick works perfectly for Zimmer, even without sound.

Right now, the Oscar prognosticators are focusing on Dujardin for best actor, but with a shrewd campaign behind it, The Artist might have a puncher’s chance at the top prize. It is a beautifully rendered valentine to movie-making, featuring two wildly charismatic romantic leads. Highly recommended, The Artist was one of the highlights of a very strong slate at this year’s NYFF. It screens again this afternoon (10/16) at Alice Tully Hall on the final day of the festival.

NYFF ’11: My Bow Breathing & The Bird Spider shorts

Archery is a handy sport to take up if you want a valid excuse to carry about a potentially lethal weapon. As it happens, a young Italian woman has a strong motivation to become an archer in E.M. Artale’s My Bow Breathing (trailer here), one of two shorts with both genuine art film polish and genre movie appeal screening at the 49th New York Film Festival.

She has not been training long, but her coach recognizes her natural talent. However, the woman has weightier matters on her mind than merely winning competitions. She is out for revenge and she will have it. Played with slow burning intensity by Giulia Bertinelli, “The Archer” holds her own with “The Bride” from Kill Bill, delivering more retribution on a per frame basis than the original Death Wish. Like Chaimae Ben Acha in Sean Gullette’s Traitors, Bertinelli has real movie-star potential, but a lot of people will miss their work at NYFF because of a prejudice against shorts. Do not mistake this mistake.

Stylishly helmed by Artale, Bow looks nothing like a standard vigilante-payback film, but it can easily be enjoyed on such terms by those so inclined. Likewise, Jaime Dezcallar’s The Bird Spider is far more psychologically complex than a mere killer spider movie, but there is no denying the presence of the deadly eight-legged crawler.

If arrows are a somewhat unusual weapon for vengeance-seeking, a poisonous spider represents a downright bizarre method of suicide. Yet, a depressed man is not simply out to take his own life, but to burn away the pain of his recent break-up by enduring his worst childhood phobia, until it kills him. Buying a poisonous spider from a pet store (exotic pet regulations must be lax in Spain), he turns it loose in his apartment. Conscious the spider could strike at any moment, he willingly plunges himself into a Kafkaesque nightmare.

Bird Spider has a similar vibe as many of the recent bumper crop of creepy Spanish horror movies, but offers more than just a few good jolts (which it definitely has). The claustrophobic setting and unsettling premise really get under your skin, while Raffel Plana Honorato’s score also nicely helps build the suspense as well as a sense of melancholia.

Highly recommended, Bow and Bird are excellent short films that should satisfy snobby cineastes and genre diehards in equal measure. Unfortunately, they are not in the same programming blocks. Bow screens this afternoon (10/15) with Traitors in Shorts Program #2 at the Francesca Beale Theater, while Bird Spider screens earlier in the day as part of Shorts Program #1, as the 2011 NYFF approaches the homestretch.

NYFF ’11: Corman’s World

Roger Corman is the Elvis Presley of genre pictures. Before anyone did anything, he did everything—and he did it cheaper. Tribute is paid to the original independent filmmaker in Alex Stapleton’s affectionately uproarious Corman’s World: Exploits of a Hollywood Rebel (trailer here), which screens this Sunday at the 49th New York Film Festival.

Corman has made hundreds of films, anticipating major shifts in the cultural zeitgeist with atomic powered creature features, rebellious teenager melodramas, biker movies, and blaxploitation cult classics. He always brought his films in on-time and under-budget. The one exception came in 1962 with The Intruder, a moody issue-driven drama about school integration and white supremacy filmed on-location in the Deep South. Now hailed as a milestone of independent filmmaking (by those hip enough to hail), Intruder was Corman’s only film to lose money. Appropriately, a special screening of a young intense Bill Shatner’s debut feature will follow Exploits.

However, after the experience of Intruder, Corman resolved to return to his low budget genre roots, subtly insinuating his political statements into his films, rather than trumpet them from the get go. Corman always was a trailblazer for the rest of Hollywood.

Corman has appeared in several documentaries in recent years, including Mark Hartley’s Machete Maidens Unleashed!, which documented Corman’s love affair with the authentic locations and bargain basement production costs offered by the Philippines in the 1970’s. Yet, there is very little overlap between the films. Indeed, with literally hundreds of outrageous movies to chose from, Corman documentarians need not fight over material.

Frankly, Stapleton probably could have made a film three times as long and the time would still fly by. Combining the joyous gusto of Corman’s films with top-shelf access to Corman and his celebrated alumni is tough to beat for sheer entertainment value. Easily the feel good film of the festival, Exploits screens with The Intruder this Sunday (10/16) as a very special event of the 2011 New York Film Festival.

Based on True Crimes: Texas Killing Fields

They like their justice swift in the Lone Star State (and God bless them for it), but it will take a transplanted New York cop to break open a heinous serial killer case. Inspired by the gruesome history of the marshland outside Texas City, TX, a notorious dumping ground for corpses, a somewhat fictionalized pair of lawmen show their grit, warts-and-all, in Ami Canaan Mann’s Texas Killing Fields (trailer here), which opens today in New York.

Nobody wants to face up to what goes on in that swamp, least of all the Texas City police officers charged with investigated it. However, Brian Heigh is new around these parts. Out of a reasonable sense of duty, he agrees to help Pam Stall, a cop from a neighboring jurisdiction, investigate a series of disappearances linked to the marsh.

His tightly wound partner Mike Souder advises against getting pulled into an open-ended morass. It also hardly helps that Stall is his ex. Heigh and Souder have very different approaches to their job, but eventually they get on the same page. Unfortunately, by that point time is running out for the latest abductee, whom the cops have a particularly personal interest in.

Frankly, the procedural element to Fields is fairly standard stuff. A bit messy, the screenplay leaves a major side-plot largely unresolved. However, the two leads really deliver the goods. Indeed, based on his work here and in The Debt, it is time to forget the big awful blockbusters like Avatar and become a believer in Sam Worthington. He is fantastic as Souder, viscerally intense and unpredictable as a live wire. While he plays the easy-going understated cop (isn’t that usually a Southern thing?), Jeffrey Dean Morgan is genuinely compelling as the slow-burning Heigh. Though largely underutilized, at least Jessica Chastain’s Stall has a cool interrogation scene (that not surprisingly has been released as a teaser).

Mann (yes, the daughter of Fields producer Michael Mann) nicely exploits the lonesome Texas backdrop and cranks up the tension down the stretch like an old pro. Yet, one thing that really distinguishes the film is its sympathetic portrayal of Heigh’s Catholicism. As the body count mounts, he has something of a crisis of faith, but not in a way that leads him to question his beliefs. Rather, he struggles to find his proper path amid the chaos or what his wife suggests might be his calling. Not only does this humanize Heigh, it provides some light in a very dark film. 

Nobody will mistake Fields for a buddy-cop movie, but Worthington and Morgan are compulsively watchable as they dispense some justice. Recommended rather enthusiastically for those who want strong character studies in their crime dramas, Fields opens this Friday (10/14) in New York at the IFC Center.

Ben Mendelsohn’s Trespass

Witness the next logical step of Occupy Wall Street’s escalating class warfare: violent home invasions. Diamond dealer Kyle Miller ought to “have” plenty. A desperate drug dealer deeply in debt to the mob “has not.” The fact that Miller was wiped out by the recent crash is an unfortunate complicating factor in Trespass (trailer here), Joel Schumacher’s latest bit of hyperventilating silliness, which opens today in New York.

Miller is married to Sarah, a beautiful architect who designed the tony new home they have not yet paid for. They have a rebellious teen-aged daughter, Avery, who looks like a porn-star. Trying to hustle freelance commissions, Miller has not told his wife and daughter he was let go by his firm. Ironically, his attempts to keep up appearances have enticed a gang of thugs with connections to his security company. Ostensibly led by Elias, the home invaders want inside his conspicuous wall safe. A highly motivated man, if Elias cannot pay off his debts with this score, he and his junkie girlfriend Petal are in a world of hurt. Thus begins the battle of wits, such as it might be.

To be fair, Miller’s attempts to negotiate with Elias are written relatively sharply. In contrast, the subplot involving Elias’s brother and his delusional attraction to Sarah Miller is just mind-numbingly dumb. Likewise, all the teasing near-escapes and aborted mayday calls quickly become tiresome. Still, production designer Nathan Amondson’s team created a cool looking, ultra-sleek architectural set that might be the second most interesting character in the film.

At least Australian actor Ben Mendelsohn understands what makes a great villain. He gives a ferocious performance as Elias, projecting savage cunning and major screen presence, even when concealed by his mask. It is pretty telling when the new Joel Schumacher movie starring Nicholas Cage and Nicole Kidman is best pitched as the latest Ben Mendelsohn film, but that seems to be about the size of things. He almost single-handedly earns the film an extra star and a half it does not deserve.

With his constant nostril flaring and ludicrous mangling of Air Force One style catch-phrases (“Get out of my house!”), the strung-out looking Cage is absolutely laughable as Miller, in the worst way possible. Still, he is trying his hardest throughout. Though she periodically tries to knuckle down and power out some kind of characterization, Kidman mostly just mails it in as Sarah Miller (and who can blame her?).

True, Trespass provides scads of unintentional comedy. That is all very fine for Saturday morning hangover viewing, but it is nowhere near sufficient to justify a suburban senior matinee ticket price, let alone the full fare in Midtown Manhattan. Basically just a big clumsy mess, Trespass opens today (10/14) in New York at the AMC Village 7.

Oka: The Call of Africa

For those pining for more ethnomusicologist movies, your wait is over. Larry Whitman needs a new liver. Instead, he heads off on a final African hurrah, hoping to complete his field recording project by documenting the fabled molimbo, which may or may not exist. Yet, he does not spend much time looking for either once he rejoins the Bayaka pygmies in Lavinia Currier’s Oka! (trailer here), which opens tomorrow in New York.

Times have changed since Whitman’s last sojourn through the Central African Republic (CAR). Formerly woodland hunter-gatherers, the Bayaka now primarily live in the Yandombe village, working at a lumber mill. Not content with the current rate of deforestation, Mr. Li, a Chinese businessman, has his eye on a vast swath of the forest. Of course, the corrupt Mayor Bassoun is willing to grease the wheels for him. However, their plans are complicated when the tribe’s shaman Sataka uses the excitement of Whitman’s arrival as a catalyst for a mass return to the forest.

Often feverish, Whitman is not much help with the communal chores. Yet, he attracts the romantic attentions of Sataka’s granddaughter anyway. Still, there will be interpersonal conflicts in this Eden. He will also extensively record the songs of the Bayaka as well as nature’s ambient music.

In a way, Oka is like a more wholesome version of Barbet Schroeder’s’ La Valée (a.k.a. Obscured by Clouds), featuring a westerner on a hallucinatory quest into the heart of the primordial jungle. Oka though has a much richer soundtrack (you read that right Floyd fanatics, bring it on). Featuring dazzling polyrhythmic percussion tracks from real life Yandombe musicians as well as some infectious high life-esque tracks composed by Chris Berry, Oka’s music is its greatest attraction.

The film also looks great too, capitalizing on the striking natural vistas of CAR. Primary cinematographer Conrad W. Hall (whose grandfather James Norman Hall co-authored Mutiny on the Mutiny) makes the lush backdrop radiate a sense of awe and mysticism. Indeed, it is fortunate the sights and sounds of Oka are so cool, because the screenplay spends long periods of time roaming lost through the jungle underbrush.

Resembling Steve Buscemi’s taller brother, Kris Marshall’s Whitman hardly looks like he could last a night in the great outdoors, but his gangly earnestness is oddly engaging. Claire Denis and Jim Jarmusch regular Isaac de Bankolé takes one for the team as co-executive producer, playing the thankless role of the by-the-numbers villainous mayor. Though it is a bit of a stereotypical wise man role, Mapumba has undeniable screen presence as Sataka, anchoring the film quite nicely.

To give due credit, Oka replaces the cliché of the evil American businessman out to plunder CAR’s natural resources with a Chinese business on said mission, which is frankly far more realistic this day and age. As narrative filmmaking, Oka is somewhat slack at times, but as an audio-visual tour of the African rainforest, it is rather impressive. It deserves to at least reach the world music audience who will appreciate Whitman’s calling when it opens tomorrow (10/14) at the Angelika Film Center.

NYFF ’11: Traitors (short)

They are like the Runaways of Tangier, except a Moroccan all-women punk group really is rather rebellious, just in its very existence. Yet, family issues will preoccupy their fiery lead singer over the course of a typically eventful day for the band in Sean Gullette’s Traitors, which screens this Saturday as part of the 49th New York Film Festival’s Shorts Program #2.

Best known as the ragged mathematician in Darren Aronofsky’s Pi, Gullette makes his directorial debut with Traitors (that is with an anarchy sign for the “a”), named after the band fronted by Malika. The camera truly loves hitherto unknown Chaimae Ben Acha as the lead singer, even the handheld digitals used by Gullette’s cinematographers Benoït Peverilli and Niko Tavernise. If there is one future international star represented at this year’s festival, it must be Acha.

For one thing, she can really belt it out Joan Jett style. We first encounter Traitors rehearsing a song that tells us all we need know about their opinion of Morocco’s cops and politicians. Not much. In need of cash for an upcoming gig, Malika naturally plans to “borrow” some from her elegant professional-class mother. However, in the process of rifling through her parents’ room she learns an upsetting secret.

As Malika and her bandmates careen through the night, we get a visceral sense of the Tangier underground youth culture. When the cops show up, they do their best to live up to Traitors’ cynical assessment. Yet, aside from petty public corruption, Gullette’s film avoids the larger potential macro conflicts. Just what the local religious authorities would think of the band is left to viewers’ imagination. Still, crude sexism and unwelcomed lechery seem to be fairly widespread among the Moroccan men Malika encounters.

Acha gives a knockout performance, but she is not carrying the film alone. Firouz Rahal Bouzid and Abdesslam Bounouacha also contribute wonderfully human supporting turns as Malika’s parents. Running just over half an hour, Traitors is no mere sketch. By any standards of dramatic cinema, it is a wholly satisfying, self-contained film. A real discovery, Traitors screens this Saturday (10/15), as a selection of Shorts Program #2 at the 2011 NYFF.

Case Histories: Jackson Brodie, One Detective, Two Last Names

Jackson Brodie jogs, listens to sad music, mismanages his personal life, and agonizes over his tragic family history. Occasionally, he does a spot of detective work. Fortunately, DC Louise Munroe just swoons over him, because the former Edinburgh cop has burned a lot of bridges, both on the force and with his ex. Indeed, there will be a lot of brooding in store for viewers with the premiere of Case Histories this Sunday on PBS’s Masterpiece Mystery.

Based on the novels by Kate Atkinson, each nearly two hour episode introduces several ostensibly separate cases, which usually turn out to be interrelated in various ways. However, the first eponymously titled installment rather forces the strands together. Yet, it is Brodie’s backstory that really takes center stage. The divorced gumshoe tries to be a good father to ten year-old-ish Marlie, but he is always distracted by work.

Initially, he is hired to solve the decades old disappearance of a young girl by her two ragingly neurotic grown sisters. Shortly thereafter, a grieving father engages Brodie to find his daughter’s murderer, whom he assumes acted on a random violent impulse. A bit later, a nurse convinces Brodie to find the sister she turned her back on years ago. At least she is considerate enough to seduce him first.

One Good Turn, the middle episode, is somewhat stronger as a crime drama, but it indulges in far too many flashbacks to a fateful series of events in Brodie’s childhood. On one of his many long distance runs along the picturesque Scottish coast, Brodie spies a corpse caught sinking in the surf. Unable to pull her from the undertow, Brodie follows a handful of sketchy leads to a dodgy cleaning service using women trafficked from Russia. Reluctantly, he also babysits Martin Canning, a mystery novelist spooked by his involvement in an apparently simple road rage incident. Of course, somehow everything ties back to Russia. Even Canning has some dark history there, which Adam Godley reveals in Case’s best guest-starring turn.

With Marlie and her Mum temporarily living in New Zealand and Christmas fast approaching, the concluding When Will There Be Good News promises to reach Wallander levels of angst. To make matters worse, Brodie is considerably banged up in freak train accident. It would have been far more severe had teenaged nanny Reggie not come along at the right time. In return, she wants Brodie to find her missing friend and employer. Meanwhile, a messy adultery case just will not go away. Easily the most cohesive narrative of the series, Good News is also far more deft and disciplined in its use of flashbacks from the past.

Soon to be seen on NBC’s upcoming Awake, Isaacs is evidently catnip for women in their late 40’s to early 50’s. To give him due credit, he also looks credible taking a beating like a man. Frankly, he has a suitably intense screen presence. We just get a little too much of his guilt-ridden moping. Dude, you’re a pretty big guy. Go hit someone.

While Case Histories picks up momentum as the series advances, the drama with Brodie’s family and DC Munroe remain constant speed bumps. Frankly, Brodie private should have been more private. A mostly okay British mystery series, but nowhere near as cool as Zen, as cinematic as Sherlock, or as endearing as a warhorse like Lewis, Case Histories begins this Sunday (10/16) as part of the current season of Masterpiece Mystery.

California Dreams: Bombay Beach

California once was the state Americans moved to in hopes of finding better opportunities. Today, Californians are voting with their feet, seeking greener economic pastures in Nevada and Texas. The Salton Sea typifies the California dream turned nightmare. Once a resort hot spot, a sharp rise in salinity turned the sea and surrounding beaches into a land of desolation. Israeli-born filmmaker Alma Har’el turns her camera on several hardy residents of the former beachfront community in Bombay Beach (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

It’s been a longtime since the rat pack frolicked in Bombay Beach’s night spots. Of course, it has been a longtime since they frolicked anywhere. Many of the dilapidated neon signs still survive, begging to be restored to retro nostalgic glory. A motley assortment of desert rats lives in this surreal environment, who Har’el intends to present as an ironic commentary on American exceptionalism. In some ways, this is more reasonable than she perhaps realizes. “Red” is a case in point. A deliberately rootless eccentric, Red makes ends meet reselling cigarettes from the nearest tax-exempt reservation. A frontier spirit, Red clearly feels right at home here.

Ironically, Bombay Beach represents life and hope for one inner city teenager. After the shooting death of his cousin, CeeJay was trundled off to live there, safely away from the street crime of Los Angeles. He also now attends an academically superior school, where he believes he has a better chance to standout on the football team.

Without question, the film is most voyeuristic when looking in on the Parrishes. Benny Parrish’s parents are former gun nuts who enjoyed setting off explosives out in the boonies for fun. Bombay Beach ought to be the perfect place for them. Unfortunately, they did a stretch of time for their hobby, temporarily losing custody of Benny. When they got him back, he already had enough prescriptions to stock a kiddie pharmacy. The Parrishes are clearly a very sad family, but considering the mistakes they have made, it is hard to extrapolate wider significance from their situation.

In between scenes of quiet quirkiness, Har’el stages musical interludes featuring her subjects, who display varying degrees of competency. For some, these will no doubt heighten the atmosphere of surreal trippiness. Yet, it also emphasizes the artificiality of the film.

Yes, time and the elements have been cruel to the Bombay community. While the late Congressman Sonny Bono spearheaded Salton Sea reclamation plans, he only just got the ball rolling. Those so inclined will be able to gawk at the town’s faded promise well into the foreseeable future. Frankly, that is largely what Har’el’s film does. While there are some striking images, memorably accompanied by the music of Beirut and Bob Dylan, the film is really rather exploitative. Not particularly satisfying, Bombay Beach opens this Friday (10/14) in New York at the IFC Center.

Taiwan Film Days ’11: Ranger

After twenty-five years of incarceration, the recently released ex-con Lin Wen-sheng understands how to take a beating. It is a skill he tries to teach to a gangster’s abused pre-teen in Chienn Hsiang’s Ranger, the powerful concluding film of the San Francisco Film Society’s 2011 Taiwan Film Days.

In contradiction of established film noir conventions, Lin did not leave prison looking for revenge or redemption. Having enduring the assaults of rival gangs for a quarter century, he is essentially dead inside. Though the aging crime boss Dragon intends to look after him, Lin is left forgotten in a corner, next to the beaten and battered kid the mobster never wanted.

After a particularly rough beating, Lin takes the child to the hospital. Of course, this necessitates a police report, setting in motion a chain of events Lin will be largely oblivious to. Reluctantly though, he starts to care for the vulnerable youngster, perhaps seeking to make amends for his crimes or to compensate for his estranged relationship with his own father.

Ranger is about as grimly deterministic as a film can get. Yet, its view of humanity is not unremittingly pessimistic, showing many small but touching acts of kindness, as Lin marches towards his destiny. Indeed, it blends naturalism and humanism into a strange cocktail that ultimately represents Taiwan and Taiwanese cinema quite well.

The winner of the Taipei International Film Festival’s best actor award for Ranger, Wu Pong-fong’s Lin is viscerally intense but scrupulously understated. His work with the film’s adolescent costar is also rather honest and poignant. In fact, Ranger might herald the arrival of a considerable young star in the making, yet the nature of the performance is such that it is difficult to discuss without spoiling a major development.

While periodic flashbacks establish the crushing weight of the past, former cinematographer Chienn Hsiang sensitively helms Ranger, allowing its quiet moments to blossom organically. It is a film that a distributor like Magnolia ought to take a serious look at, since they could position it either for the serious art-house market or as a gritty genre gangster movie. Regardless, it is a very accomplished film. The highlight and fittingly the closing selection of the SFFS’s Taiwan Film Days, Ranger is quite highly recommended when it screens this coming Sunday night (10/16) at the New People Cinema.

Zombies in Africa: The Dead

Africa is the cradle of civilization. Mankind started there and is about to end there in spectacular fashion. Yes, the zombie apocalypse is raging in the Ford Brothers’ The Dead (mature trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Lt. Brian Murphy was on the last transport plane out of West Africa. It didn’t make it. Crashing off the coast, Murphy washes up on shore, only to be met by a reception committee of zombies. Fortunately, they are dumb, slow, and relatively easy to shoot through. They have one big advantage though: numbers, which are only growing. Kit-bashing together some transportation, Murphy joins forces with Sergeant Daniel Dembele, a deserter from the local military desperately searching for his young son. With dwindling ammo and water, they head towards the last reported shelter in hopes of finding the boy.

Unlike The Walking Dead, there are loads of zombie attacks in the rather pedestrianly titled but seriously cool The Dead. Though it follows the general conventions established by the Living Dead films (aim for their empty heads), the Fords (Howard J. and Jon) are notably stylish filmmakers for the horror genre. Shot on location in Ghana and Burkina Faso, their sun-scorched vistas are genuinely striking (credit particularly due to cinematographer brother Jon). They even seem to evoke Lawrence of Arabia in early scenes. The Brothers Ford also understand how to build suspense from the fear of the unseen, as well as indulging in the gore demanded by hardcore zombie fans.

By horror movie standards, Dead’s primary leads fall considerably towards the high end of the bell curve as well. Rob Freeman is pretty engaging as the grizzled black ops soldier, far manlier than the youngsters Hollywood keeps pushing on us. However, the real discovery of The Dead for American audiences is Ghanaian actor Prince David Osei, whose intense screen presence is undeniable.

Of course, Dead falls into a somewhat predictable pattern, where the marauding zombies try to eat Murphy and Dembele, while the two survivors hack at them with machetes. That is not necessarily a criticism. As a further plus, Dead never really bothers with much of a guilt trip over western colonialism. It just doesn’t have the time for it. After all, those zombie hordes aren’t going to kill themselves, except maybe occasionally by accident.

The Dead conveys the atmosphere of the African countryside far better than scores of mainstream films, but it is not likely to transcend category. It is just too enthusiastic about showing off its severed limbs. Zombie fanatics though, totally need to check out it when it opens in New York this Friday (10/7) at the AMC Empire.

NYFF ’11: My Week with Marilyn

Sir Laurence Olivier and Marilyn Monroe were about to achieve career highpoints in John Osborne’s The Entertainer and Billy Wilder’s Some Like it Hot, respectively. However, the chemistry was somewhat lacking in their one and only film together, The Prince and the Showgirl, tepidly received by critics and audiences alike in 1957. The behind-the-scenes story of their rocky shoot is told from the perspective of a smitten production assistant in Simon Curtis’s My Week with Marilyn (trailer here), the centerpiece selection of the 49th New York Film Festival.

Though to-the-manor-born, young Colin Clark wants to make his own way in the world working in motion pictures. Refusing to take no for an answer, Clark parlays a dubious introduction into a gofer job with Olivier’s production company. Recently knighted, the great actor is planning to direct the American bombshell in a light comedic role his wife, Vivien Leigh, originated on-stage. Unfortunately, when Monroe shows up with full entourage in tow, it is quickly apparent she deeply enthralled by the method school of acting, dubious claptrap Sir Laurence has little patience for.

Despite beginning a healthy romance with Lucy, a wardrobe assistant arguably as attractive as the childlike and frequently doped-up Monroe, Clark falls hard for the famous sex symbol. While not exactly mutual, Monroe starts to rely on the solicitous young man’s emotional support. It all leads to much gossip and quite a bit of ill will on the set.

If Marilyn Monroe truly was a ragingly insecure woman who lived in a pronounced state of arrested development, then Michelle Williams plays her quite well indeed. Though she is already being positioned as an Oscar contender, her Monroe seems to be a blank slate on which the other characters project their desires. Was that all there really was to her? If so, how very sad.

In welcomed contrast, the British ensemble cast, including the likes of Dame Judi Dench, Michael “Foyle” Kitchen, and Julia Ormand (as Leigh, no small part to step into either), plays it to the hilt, bandying about witticisms as if they are in The Bad and the Beautiful, as rewritten by Noel Coward.

Yet, the casting of Kenneth Branagh as Olivier is particularly inspired. Not only does Branagh have the right “classically trained” presence and flair for razor-sharp dialogue, one can see parallels of his own career in that of Sir Laurence. Earning acclaim and the not infrequent comparison to Olivier with his early Shakespearean films, Branagh’s recent career had been somewhat checkered (including a critically drubbed remake of the Olivier vehicle, Sleuth), until scoring an unlikely comeback with Thor. Regardless, he plays the iconic thespian with genuine depth and charisma.

Granted, Week is based on his memoir, but the amount of screen time devoted to Eddie Redmayne’s Clark seems wildly misappropriated, considering the far more interesting actors and great larger than life figures of cinema history that are also assembled in the film. Frankly, his sad eyed, love-struck act quickly gets rather dull. Fortunately, the seasoned veterans like Branagh, Dench, and Sir Derek Jacobi can be relied upon to supply Week periodic jolts of energy.

Curtis certainly keeps the film breezing along nicely, capturing a nice sense of the era along the way. Always pleasant viewing, Week features some wonderfully tasty supporting performances. It just seems to consistently focus on the two dullest people at a banquet of greatness. A case of a film whose sum of its parts is probably greater than its whole, Week screens again tomorrow night (11/12) at the Walter Reade Theater as the Centerpiece of the 2011 NYFF. However, only standby tickets are available, so good luck.