The Fake: Faith and Fraud in Provincial Korea

Pastor Sung is sort of a Korean Elmer Gantry, except he is the closest thing to a good guy in this dark animated examination of human nature.  He had the profound misfortune to become entangled with a ruthless con artist, but the man out to expose them is the worst of the lot in Yeon Sang-ho’s The Fake (trailer here), which just started a week-long Oscar-qualifying run in Los Angeles.

The best part of absentee father Min-chul has been his absence.  Physically and emotionally abusive, his homecoming is far from a happy event for his meek wife and daughter, the long suffering Young-sun.  Plundering Young-sun’s college savings for gambling money, Min-chul inadvertently drives her into the arms of the local faith-healing church—the very sort of outfit he most despises.

Devastated by a prior scandal, the gentle Pastor Sung has fallen for the false promises of “Elder” Choi, a wanted con man.  Through drunken happenstance (and a night in lock-up), Min-chul learns the truth about Choi, but nobody will listen to the obnoxious cretin.  A savage war commences between Min-chul and Choi’s henchmen, while the shadowy crook pressures Pastor Sung to finish fleecing his flock.

Fake is nothing like what you probably expect, beyond its pitch black portrayal of human nature.  Its depiction of blind faith might be unflattering, but nothing is more miserable than the abject lack of a higher meaning in one’s life.  Min-chul is not an anti-hero.  He is a vile brute driven by rage and contempt for his fellow man—and he is unquestionably the face of atheism throughout the film.  In a variation on Chesterton, Min-chul suggests those who believe in nothing, hate everything.

With its acrid irony and complete lack sentimentality, Fake is not likely to be embraced by Christian audiences. Yet, it is a deeply moral film.  It is also unremittingly pessimistic, perhaps setting the world’s record for the most grimly naturalistic animated feature ever.  Frankly, Yeon’s figures are not very expressive, perhaps showing slightly less definition than those in his feature debut, The King of Pigs. However, his characters very definitely have something to say.  Set in a provincial small town scheduled to be demolished for the sake of a massive public works project, the film also has a distinctive, vaguely apocalyptic vibe that is hard to shake.

Parents should note, Fake is completely inappropriate for children.  In addition to its very complex themes, there is considerable violence, harsh language, and all kinds of inhumanity directed at man and beast alike. However, the mature audiences for whom it is intended should find it a visceral, but surprisingly thoughtful film.  Highly recommended for those who appreciate challenging adult animation (and Academy members), The Fake is now showing at the CGV Cinemas in Los Angeles.

DOC NYC ’13: The Sarnos

The late Joseph W. Sarno was never accused of being a ruthless businessman.  The soft-core sexploitation director is considered an auteur by many, but he rarely had an ownership stake in the films he made.  As a result, the Sarno family finances are a bit precarious, making it a challenge to secure financing for a new film.  Wiktor Ericsson follows Sarno and his wife Peggy Steffans Sarno as they take their bows on the international film festival circuit and plug away on his comeback attempt in The Sarnos: A Life in Dirty Movies (trailer here), which screens tomorrow during DOC NYC 2013.

Films like Inga and Sin in the Suburbs made a ton of money for somebody, playing to packed old school Times Square grindhouse theaters.  Sarno just got to make the next one.  At least, he met his future wife when she accepted a part in one of his films.  Like many of his regulars, she was a legit stage thesp, who brought real acting chops to his films.  Frankly, opinions vary regarding the acting you will find in Sarno’s cinematic statements, but let’s just assume the best for now.  Likewise, not everyone buys into Sarno’s press as the “Ingmar Bergman of Sexploitation,” but enough do for us to take it seriously.

Indeed, Ericsson records for posterity the Sarnos enjoying their overdue ovations at a BFI retrospective, which is about as real as it gets.  Not surprisingly, John Waters (the Martin Scorsese of grindhouse docs) is on hand to put Sarno’s career in perspective.  A Sarno film definitely explores sexual subjects, but it is uncharacteristically concerned with female fulfillment.  They are also dark, psychologically complex, and often kind of weird.  Waters suggests they probably were not all that satisfying for 42^nd Street patrons looking to take care of business—and he would know from firsthand experience.

Unfortunately, time passed by Sarno’s slightly scandalous oeuvre.  Reluctantly, he accepted some pseudonymous hardcore work, but that was not his thing.  As the product of their circumstances, Ericcson’s Life in Dirty Movies is surprisingly wistful, especially by provocative doc standards.  Ironically, it is a rather nostalgic, almost conservative film, focusing on the Sarnos’ enduring love.

Frankly, the film’s niceness to naughtiness ratio might not go over so well with its target audience.  Dirty is real and honest, but the course of human events would deny it a big finish. Despite the pleasantness of the Sarnos, the doc is rather small in scope, feeling better suited to television than the big screen.  Norwegian jazz musician Bugge Wesseltoft’s upbeat score helps enhance its cinematic quality, but there is no getting around Dirty’s talky intimacy.

Nevertheless, Sarno has a fascinating career that reflects wider cultural trends in unexpected ways.  It is also well worth meeting Steffans on-screen.  Still quite a striking woman with a razor-sharp sense of humor, who helps keep the very personal film moving along.  If Sarno was the Bergman of Sexploitation, than she is the Helen Mirren.  Unlikely to convert new fans wholesale, The Sarnos: A Life in Dirty Movies is mostly recommended for Sarno’s pre-existing admirers and grindhouse connoisseurs when it screens tomorrow (11/16) and Monday (11/18) at the IFC Center as part of this year’s DOC NYC.

Sex, Love & Salsa: What’s It All About, Julian?

Evidently, Julian Suarez is a Salsa dancer who never saw Michael Caine in Alfie.  If he had, he might have been forewarned players like himself always realize just a little too late when it is time to settle down.  At least he has respectable taste in music from what we can tell from Adrian Manzano’s Sex, Love & Salsa (a.k.a. BQE, trailer here), which opens tonight in Brooklyn.

Suarez thinks he is so good at putting on the moves he actually gives classes to other aspiring pick-up artists.  He also fancies himself a future reality TV-documentary franchise, so he and his cronies compulsively film their Casanova antics.  He will have his work cut out for him trying to thaw Maria, a professionally trained Salsa dancer who recognizes a player when she sees one.  On the other side of the spectrum, he is a little too successful seducing the very young and very inexperienced Genny (practically from the block). Ingrid, his somewhat older friend-with-benefits might be a better fit, but all her talk about suddenly wanting a baby has him kind of spooked.

As a director, Manzano relies too heavily on hand-held cameras and as-seen-through-the-omnipresent-video-camera perspectives.  However, he stages a very stylish formal dance number down the stretch. As a screenwriter, he created one intriguing female character in Ingrid, and gives Maria a few interesting moments, but poor Genny badly illustrates the principle of diminishing returns.  As his lead actor, I’ll leave it the women of New York to judge how convincing Manzano is as an irresistible lades man.  Anyone, anyone?  Bueller, Bueller?

Regardless, Manzano gives viewers a nice slice of New York nightlife, showcasing a number of talented Salsa bands and dancers.  Shot on location in Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens (wherever that is), SLS has a vivid sense of place, often feeling like a tour of neighborhood Salsa clubs, which is cool.  Maleche Stewart’s black-and-white-with-flashes-of-color cinematography is also quite visually appealing.  It sounds kind of harsh, but SLS would probably be a better movie if there was less story and more dancing.

Still, Susan Quinn gives a rich, multifaceted performance as the tough but vulnerable Ingrid.  Likewise, Gabrielle Ruiz lends the film a genuinely seductive screen presence and some nice Salsa chops as the less than impressed Maria.  Marisol Carrere and Jorge Hoyos also do some nice work as Suarez’s mother and father, rescuing an overwritten family breakfast scene.  The rest of the ensemble is a little spotty.

Manzano earns credit for not indulging in cheap pay-offs, but viewers will still have a pretty good idea where it is all heading.  There are a lot of talented musicians gigging in New York Salsa bands, including moonlighting jazz players, so if SLS is good for business than that’s great.  Unfortunately, the awkward drama does not always well serve the hot Salsa vibe.  Mostly for diehard Salsa fans and chauvinistic Brooklynites, Sex, Love & Salsa opens tonight (11/14) at indieScreen in the County of Kings, with Salsa dancing to follow each nightly screening.

12-12-12: the Sandy Aid Concert

People do not realize the swath of Hurricane/Tropical Storm Sandy was so wide, encompassing most of the Tri-State Area and a good chunk of New England, it made flight impractical.  Where were you going to go? Ohio?  As a result, most New Yorkers sat tight and made the best of things.  Many were wiped out and the rebuilding continues to this day.  The Robin Hood Foundation was one of many non-profits that rushed to assist those in need.  To support their efforts, Cablevision-Madison Square Garden boss James Dolan, Clear Channel’s John Sykes, and the always quotable Harvey Weinstein organized a benefit concert at the Garden, featuring some of the biggest (and as many can’t help observing, oldest) acts in rock & roll.  Amir Bar-Lev, with co-director-co-producer Charlie Lightening, documents both the on-stage attractions and the backstage bedlam in 12-12-12 (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Not to be confused with the little seen horror film with the same title, 12-12-12 starts a few days before December 12, 2012, as the power trio scramble to nail down the concert details.  Once again, Sir Paul McCartney is the concert’s lynch pin, as he was for the Concert for New York six weeks after the terrorist attacks of September 11^th.  Once the elder statesman Beatle signed on, some of rock’s biggest names followed, including The Who, the Rolling Stones, Bruce Springsteen, the divisive Roger Waters with Pink Floyd, and Billy Joel, an alumnus of the 2001 benefit, who also featured McCartney as a special guest at his send-off concert for the fondly remembered Shea Stadium.

12-12-12 mostly features songs that roughly sort of fit the evening’s themes, like “Living on a Prayer” and “Miami 2017” (the one that goes “I’ve seen the lights go out on Broadway”), but sometimes it just makes do with greatest hits.  As a follow-up to Bar-Lev’s fantastic music doc Re:Generation Music Project, 12-12-12 is a considerably more commercial, but ironically less interesting subject.  Essentially, it is a clips package, but Bar-Lev still has a shrewd eye behind-the-scenes action.  When the concert’s website goes Sebelius on them, it is rather amusing listening to Weinstein and Dolan try to bullying poor tech support folks into fixing it.  Likewise, it is rather telling to see Jesse Jackson glad-handing any celebrity who will talk to him.

Shockingly, Charlie Watts now looks like the youngest member of the Stones—and he still lays down a solid beat, God bless him.  $50 million was raised for Sandy relief, which definitely helped a lot of people.  Overall, it is a nice film, if not particularly deep, with only an occasional snippet of global warming soap-boxing here and there.  The Robin Hood Foundation is still accepting donations for Sandy Aid, but frankly, this is the time for New Yorkers to come together to support the typhoon survivors in the Philippines, a nation we have a long, close history with that has an accomplished film industry and a better jazz scene than you would expect.  You can donate to the Red Cross relief efforts here.  Recommended for mainstream rock fans, 12-12-12 opens this Friday in New York at the Angelika Film Center.

Charlie Countryman: Next Time, Budapest

A grieving man-child is in for a heavy dose of fear and loathing in Bucharest.  It should have been fear and loathing in Budapest, or so everyone tells him as part of the film’s running refrain.  Viewers will wish they were there too, since the Hungarian city has nothing to do with Fredrik Bond’s ambitious but disappointing Charlie Countryman (trailer here), which opens Friday in New York.

When Countryman’s comatose mother is taken off life support, he does not handle the rush of reality well, but her ghost (or his mental projection) forgives him.  As therapy or to broaden his narrow horizons, she makes him promise to visit Bucharest before going on her spirit way.  You might think he would develop a complex when the old fellow sitting next to him on the flight also shuffles off the mortal coil and gives Countryman a few ghostly parting words.  However, when Countryman meets Victor Ibanescu’s daughter Gabi in the airport, he does his best to comfort her with his dopey presence.

As a professional cellist, Gabi Ibanescu is way out of his league, but Countryman falls for her hard.  Further complicating matters, her ex is the sociopathic gangster, Nigel.  It seems Victor had some incriminating evidence he had used to keep the Euro crime boss at bay.  With the stakes and MacGuffin clearly identified, Countryman and his youth hostel cronies proceed to get really high and run afoul a mobbed-up strip club.  At least it advances the plot.

Shia LaBeouf seems to have a knack for getting Alec Baldwin’s goat, so hats off to him.  In fact, he deserves credit for taking on such an unlikable character and following through on it.  Unfortunately, he cannot single-handedly rescue this weird mishmash. Nonetheless, he is completely convincing as the whiny and immature Countryman.

On the other hand, Evan Rachel Wood as a Romanian femme fatale?  Not so much.  Mads Mikkelsen does his thing as Nigel, but we have seen this shtick before.  Probably the most colorfully assured turn comes from an actual Romanian, well regarded actor and former Minister of Culture Ion Caramitru as the ill-fated Ibanescu. Bizarrely, quite a few big names are completely wasted here, including Aubrey Plaza in a thankless walk-on cameo as Countryman’s fed-up ex-girlfriend.

Frankly, the real star of Countryman is cinematographer Roman Vasyanov, whose neon noir look is seductively ominous.  In contrast, Matt Drake’s more-holes-than-Swiss-cheese screenplay does not do anyone any favors, particular the talking dead people motif.  Whether intended as magical realism or psychological expressionism, it comes off as a clumsy affectation.  There are some wonderfully evocative shots of Bucharest by night, but the vivid sense of place is not enough to recommended Countryman.  Never really coming together, Charlie Countryman opens this Friday (11/15) in New York at the AMC Empire.

Dear Mr. Watterson: About that No Hobbes Doll Thing

Bill Watterson is sort of like the Salinger of syndicated comic strips.  Despite the popularity of Calvin & Hobbes, he has shunned the media spotlight and steadfastly refused to license merchandise (even including stuffed Hobbes dolls). Yet, years after he inked his final panel, people still feel like they share a deep personal relationship with his characters. Director-editor Joel Allen Schroeder proclaims his love for the comic characters and invites others to do the same in the tribute-documentary, Dear Mr. Watterson (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

There will probably never be a Calvin & Hobbes Christmas special, so devotees of the Christopher Robin-like boy and his probably imaginary tiger will have to settle for Schroeder’s doc.  Do not hold your breath waiting for the titular Mr. Watterson to sit down and remember when, either.  Instead, Schroeder talks to a number of fans and fair number of Watterson’s fannish-sounding fellow cartoonists. 

While that is all very good, it is not exactly earthshaking stuff.  More interesting are the behind-the-scenes reminiscences of Watterson’s professional colleagues at his newspaper syndicate and his book publisher.  What emerges is a portrait of an art form bordering on e-driven extinction. Sadly, viewers get a sense C&H was not the peak of daily comic strips, but the last great hurrah.

It is too bad Watterson’s participation was such an “as if,” because he rather sounds like someone with something to say.  He is still remembered for a blistering and some say prescient address to a professional cartoonists’ assembly warning of the consequences of the commercialization of comic strips and the erosion of creators’ control.  Bloom County cartoonist Berkley Breathed sort of fondly discusses the pointed letters Watterson once set him, not so gently calling him out for his Opus plush toys and other merchandising.

One of the open questions of Dear is whether the now defunct C&H strip will retain its cultural currency without the TV specials and various toys to drive awareness for younger readers.  Schroeder and his talking heads are sure it will, because it is just so darn good, but clearly they are speaking out of optimism and affection.

Dear is a gentle film that celebrates the wholesome values and artistic integrity of Calvin & Hobbes, which is refreshing, but not particularly cinematic.  At times, it almost plays like the DVD extra to a non-existent C&A animated feature.  Pleasant and well intentioned (but almost terminally nice), Dear Mr. Watterson is mostly recommended for Calvin & Hobbes diehards and those who harbor daily cartooning ambitions when it opens this Friday (11/15) in New York at the Cinema Village.

Shortlist Pick: Requiem for Romance

They happen in wildly different eras, but both hurt like a roundhouse kick to the side of the head.  Frankly, most guys would rather take the beatdown than get the “it’s not you, it’s me” call.  Animator Jonathan Ng juxtaposes the soundtrack of an awkward end of a relationship with a scene of traditional wuxia action in Requiem for Romance (trailer here), which is part of the Academy’s shortlist of ten animated shorts still in Oscar contention.

When Tsai finally answers Yun’s calls, she has some bad news for her fellow artist.  Their relationship had been on the d.l., but now it is over-and-out.  He feels a lot like the warrior ambushed by his former lover on the rooftops of a feudal Chinese village.  At least, the swordsman can fight back.

Incorporating watercolor painting and hand-drawn animation, Requiem’s animation is unusually stylish, evoking all sorts of films, paintings, and graphic design that came before it.  Connoisseurs of Asian cinema will especially appreciate some of its references.  Yet, despite the lovingly rendered fight sequences, Requiem will appeal to both hardcore cineastes and fanboys, in equal measure.

The voice-over cast of Shannon Kook-chun and Meilie Ng (as Yun and Tsai, respectively) play their parts with warmth and sensitivity.  Somehow, their words are not completely overwhelmed by Jonathan Ng’s striking visuals (and that is saying something).  Original both in conception and execution, Ng’s Requiem for Romance is the class of the Academy’s animated short film shortlist, which includes some very nice films, like Room on the Broom, the latest from the team that produced The Gruffalo.  Highly recommended for animation and martial arts fans, look for Requiem in upcoming showcases of Oscar shortlisted (and hopefully nominated) shorts.

Sorrentino’s The Great Beauty

Writers write, that’s what they do.  Jep Gambardella still qualifies, just barely.  After the publication of his acclaimed first novel, he chose to spend the rest of his career penning Vanity Fair-style celebrity profiles.  It was much easier, but far less satisfying. Gambardella belatedly realizes this holds true for all aspects of his life in Paolo Sorrentino’s The Great Beauty (trailer here), Italy’s official foreign language Oscar submission, which opens this Friday in New York.

It is Garbardella’s sixty-fifth birthday and his social circle is ready to party like they are really his friends.  The magazine writer is in his element.  However, he turns uncharacteristically pensive when he learns his great lost lover has passed away, perhaps still harboring undiminished feelings for him.  Hoping to experience a similar passion, Gambardella commences a relationship with Ramona, the daughter of his old strip-club owner crony, who still works in the family business at the impressive age of forty-two.  Perhaps there is some substance to their affair, but at the very least, her presence on his arm thoroughly scandalizes Rome’s high society.

A rapturous viewing experience, Great Beauty must be the most elegant looking and sounding film since Luca Guadagnino’s I am Love.  Frankly, it takes considerable guts to make a film that so perilously invites comparison to Fellini’s La Dolce Vita, but Sorrentino has boldly gone there nonetheless.  He masterfully maintains a mood that is palpably seductive and elegiac.  Indeed, Great Beauty is likely to induce a midlife crisis in viewers, regardless of their age or accomplishments.  Yet, it is an elusive cinematic statement that slips through your fingers whenever you try to analyze it.

Sorrentino’s frequent collaborator Toni Servillo gives the career performance of an accomplished career as Gambardella.  Wonderfully urbane and devilishly witty, he nonetheless acutely expresses Gambardella’s each and every regret. This is Academy Award caliber work, but Great Beauty is so refined and mature it will probably be lucky just to make the foreign language cut.

Of course, Servillo is not laboring alone.  As Ramona, Sabrina Ferilli’s earthy vulnerability perfectly complements Servillo’s cerebral angst, while the manic melancholy of Carlo Vendone as Gambardella’s writer-associate further heightens the Fellini-esque vibe, whereas Giovanna Vignola is simply incomparable as his acerbic editor, the diminutive Dadana.

Clearly, nobody shoots statuary and architectural edifices like cinematographer Luca Bigazzi.  Similarly, the themes composed by Lele Marchitelli, as well as several shrewdly licensed selections from the likes of Arvo Pärt, provide a rich feast for the ears.  Altogether, Great Beauty is a powerful and assured film on every level.  Very highly recommended (especially to Academy members), it opens this Friday (11/15) in New York at the Lincoln Plaza Cinemas.

Economic Freedom in Action: Getting Macro on the Micro Level

Thanks to economic freedom, you can buy Paul Frank merchandise in Slovakia. The availability of monkey-face t-shirts might not sound like an epochal triumph, but it has made a world of difference for the Rybárikovás and their standard of living.  Even more dramatic are the case studies of the North Korean defector providing start-up capital to his fellow refugees in the ROK and the Chilean beekeeper exporting queens to struggling European bee farms.  Drawing upon these highly personal case-studies and the Fraser Institute’s annual report on world economic freedom, host-economist Johan Norberg argues policies of economic liberty makes the world a better place whenever they are adopted in Economic Freedom in Action: Changing Lives (promo here), which airs on Chicago’s WTTW this Thursday.

Written and directed by James & Maureen Castle Tusty, the filmmakers responsible for inspiring Singing Revolution, and produced in conjunction with the Free to Choose Network, Action follows the template established by Milton & Rose Friedman’s groundbreaking series, sprinkling manageable nuggets of analysis amid plentiful real world examples.  Spanning the globe, Action starts in Africa, examining the country’s extraordinary turn-around from the perspective of Sylvia Banda. 

Under Socialist president-for-life Kenneth Kaunda, Zambia was an economic basket case, but following his ouster, it has become one of the continent’s fastest growing economies, thanks to an ambitious privatization program.  Banda was able to ride that wave. Starting with an unfurnished one-room restaurant, she now operates the nation’s largest food supply companies.  Through capitalism, she has enacted a series agricultural and hygiene reforms that the government and NGOs struggled to implement.

The contrast between economic liberty and authoritarianism is starkly demarcated on the Korean peninsula.  While famine is an everyday fact of life in the tightly regimented DPRK, the ROK is a land of plenty, often leading to culture shock for defectors like Daesung Kim.  To help his fellow refugees adapt, Kim started a venture capital firm that invests in their small enterprises.  Once struggling to survive, those he works with now have a stake in South Korea’s economy and can provide entrepreneurial expertise if and when the North finally liberalizes its markets and political system.

Arguably, Kim is the bravest capitalist featured in Action.  In contrast, the stakes were never so high for Katerina Rybáriková, but her story nicely illustrates the necessity of economic liberty in addition to political liberty.  After the fall of Communism, Slovakia still lagged behind most of Eastern Europe and ranked relatively low on the Fraser Institute’s index.  However, a concerted program of privatization and property rights guarantees created the climate that allowed Rybáriková to successful pitch a Slovakian franchise to the Paul Frank corporate office.

One might expect Action to steer clear of Chile, yet it completely proves the thesis of Friedman’s Capitalism and Freedom, with political liberty duly following the establishment of economic liberty.  While acknowledging the abuses of the Pinochet regime, Action charts the explosive growth following his economic reforms that remain largely unadulterated to this day. Thanks to the market-based economy, brothers John and Miguel Hernandez have been able to build their bee farm into a going pollination service and bee queen exporting concern, a business with particularly positive global ramifications, given environmental concerns regarding dwindling bee populations.

Chile and South Korean have consistently ranked high on the Fraser report, while Zambia and Slovakia have been recent up-and-comers.  That begs the obvious question: how does America rank?  For years, we usually held the second or third spot, but we have fallen in recent years, to number nineteen. Norberg and the Tustys do not engage in a look of finger-wagging, but the significance of this tumble is hard to miss.

Indeed, Action is a remarkably sure-footed exploration of the real world impact of economic policies.  By focusing on human stories it never comes across like an econ lecture or a ration of polemics.  It is thoroughly convincing, but it is also really good television, taking viewers to places they rarely see in the mainstream media.  Highly recommended, Economic Freedom in Action: Changing Lives airs this Thursday (11/14) on Chicago’s WTTW and can be seen in syndication on PBS stations throughout the month.  It will also be available for online viewing courtesy of the Free to Choose Network.

Ilya and Emilia Kabakov—Enter Here: The Artists’ Homecoming

Ilya Kabakov does not really care how many millions of people Stalin murdered—more relevant to him is the way the Soviet state treated his mother like dirt.  His intensely personal experiences under Communism profoundly shaped his conceptual work, created in collaboration with his wife, Emilia.  After twenty years in the West, Kabakov finally returns to Moscow for an ambitious series of installations.  Amei Wallach documents their mostly triumphant homecoming in Ilya and Emilia Kabakov: Enter Here (trailer here), which opens this Wednesday at Film Forum.

Kabakov’s contemporaries all acknowledge the Moscow Conceptualists started with him.  Like most of his colleagues, Kabakov paid the bills illustrating children’s books. It allowed him plenty of free time to pursue to pursue his own work, in secret of course. Arguably, the young Kabakov was rather fortunate when the Leningrad Art School accepted him, at a time when both pupil and institution had been evacuated to Samarkand.  However, his formative art school years remain a source of pain and anger for Kabakov.

Years later, Kabakov’s mother agreed to his request for a written account of her difficult life.  The narration of her words form the film’s strongest sequences, chronicling her hand-to-mouth years, working as the night watchman at his art school, living illegally in a converted water-closet, because she lacked the proper residency papers.  Constantly evicted by bureaucrats and snitches, Kabakov’s mother was essentially homeless and shunned in the workers’ paradise.  Her missive-memoir became the framework for Labyrinth, My Mother’s Album and its influence on other pieces is unmistakable.

While Ilya Kabakov clearly emerges as the senior partner, Emilia Kabakov seems perfectly content to serve as the more practical liaison with the business side of the art world.  Twelve years his senior, Emilia Kabakov carries far less personal baggage from the Soviet years.  However, it is rather eye-opening for her coming across an old informer’s journal with her family somewhat ominously identified as “the Jews.”

The Kabakovs’ brand of conceptual art is far more accessible than what might come to mind after watching the Herb & Dorothy documentaries.  Unlike some of their colleagues, the Kabakovs’ work is clearly both intellectually and emotionally engaging, with their ironic use of Soviet symbols and the trappings of crummy everyday Russian life speak volumes.  Kabakov frequently incorporates his paintings into their so-called “total installations,” which further heightens their visual impact.

With an eye for telling details, Wallach and her crew nicely capture a sense of the viewing experience of the Kabakovs’ installations.  Likewise, she also catches the artists, particularly Ilya, in reflective moods.  Executed with sensitivity, insight, and a dash of style, Ilya and Emilia Kabakov: Enter Here is recommended for those who appreciate fine art and Russian history when it opens this Wednesday (11/13) at Film Forum.

Iranian New Wave: Tall Shadows of the Wind

It could be world cinema’s most iconic scarecrow after The Wizard of Oz, but this severe figure definitely lacks a heart. Conceived as a protest against the Shah’s rule, it eerily foreshadowed the tragic disappointments of the Islamic Revolution, thereby earning it the distinction of being banned by both regimes. Fittingly, Bahman Farmanara’s Tall Shadows of the Wind screens next week during the Asia Society’s Iranian New Wave 1960s-1970s film retrospective.

Produced in 1979, the timing for Wind was profoundly unlucky.  Right from the opening sequence, one can see how the new authorities would take issue with Farmanara’s heavily symbolic adaptation of Houshang Golshiri’s short story.  A hardscrabble village has assembled in the fields to chant their prayers to their long awaited deliverer.  It is a primal scene with a vaguely pagan character, feeling rather out of place in the Abrahamic tradition. 

Clearly, life is desperately hard for the village, due to reasons only vaguely alluded to.  A scarecrow has been erected in the fields, which should be a positive development.  However, when Abdullah the bus driver draws the rough approximation of his own features on the straw man, it starts to exert a malevolent influence on the local populace. Anxiety and general feelings of dread run rampant through the hamlet, leading to some very real physical repercussions.  As the indirect cause of it all, the somewhat eccentric Abdullah is further marginalized within the community. Yet, he remains the one member of the tight-knit group inclined to take action.

Even with Wind’s otherworldly vibe, the significance of a new progressive guardian bringing even greater misery is impossible to miss. Likewise, its pointed depiction of the nonconformist’s troubled place within society did not exactly fit the new government’s playbook either. Causal relationships can get a little sketchy, but the mysterious uncertainty is part of what makes it so unsettling.  Farmanara creates an impossibly hard to describe vibe, combining gritty naturalism and a feverish sense of supernatural oppression.  Although Wind is a decidedly cerebral allegory, it could have easily been converted into a horror film with a handful of re-shoots and a different score.

Evidently finding a clean print of Wind is a bit of a challenge, but even in imperfect formats, Farmanara’s visuals are unusually powerful and loaded with meaning.  A compelling fusion of the unreal and the too real, Tall Shadows of the Wind defies comparison to other films.  Since it will be projected from DVD, the Asia Society will not charge admission to Wind this coming Tuesday (11/12).  Highly recommended regardless, Farmanara’s film has never been as widely screened as it deserves to be (especially in Iran), so any showing is an event to take advantage of.

Sake-Bomb: Have a Drink Cousin

As a sake-brewing apprentice about to succeed his master, Naoto relates to the potent potable on a deep level.  It is almost sacrilegious to ask him to drink a sake-bomb (the old sake shot submerged in a beer).  Nonetheless, he acquits himself fairly well when he hits the California party scene with his snarky cousin (better than the churlish vlogger, in fact).  Eventually, everyone will learn a thing or two in Junya Sakino’s extended family road comedy, Sake-Bomb (trailer here), which opens today in Los Angeles.

Naoto could not possibly be more earnest.  When agrees to take over his master’s brewery, he also follows the old man’s advice, taking a week’s vacation to finish working through any lingering regrets he might have in his personal life. His pursuit of Olivia, his long lost summer lover, brings him to the Moritas’ apartment in Los Angeles. 

Sebastian is crashing there with his father, because he is unemployed and has just been dumped by his girlfriend. He is not exactly keen to shuttle Naoto up to Petaluma in hopes of finding the elusive Olivia, but his father insists. Naturally, they first take a detour to a party in Irvine, so Sebastian can make a complete clown of himself in front of his ex.  At least, they meet a few interesting types there, including Joslyn, the naughty graphic novelist who catches Sebastian’s eye.

Pound for pound, there might be more identity jokes in S-B than any other film this year, largely taking the form of Sebastian’s video posts.  He is angry with Asian women who date white guys.  He is angry with white women who do not date Asian men.  He is angry with white people who cannot distinguish between Asian nationalities.  He is not too thrilled with the Chinese either, so buckle up.  On one hand, some of this material pushes the envelope of politeness.  On the other hand, it is pretty funny sometimes.

As Sebastian, Eugene Kim never holds back on the attitude.  He is almost too abrasive, considering the audience obviously is supposed to embrace him during the third act.  However, likability is not a problem for Gaku Hamada, the popular Japanese star of Potechi (Chips), who subtly but surely conveys the strength of character beneath Naoto’s naivety. Together, their over-the-top and understated personas play off each other quite nicely.  Future star-in-the-making Jessika Van also scores in her scene as a friend of Sebastian’s girlfriend, giving him what-for.  Yet, for a certain demographic, former porn star and California gubernatorial candidate Mary Carey upstages everyone as, you know, a porn star.

Sake-Bomb never reinvents the buddy movie-wheel, but it has an edge and a good deal of heart. Better than the typical Phillips and Apatow grind ‘em outs, Sake-Bomb is recommended for fans of slightly raucous but well-intentioned rom-coms when it opens today (11/8) in Los Angeles at the Downtown Independent.

Reaching for the Moon: Elizabeth Bishop in Brazil

There was a time when legitimate poets could be famous.  In 1951, Elizabeth Bishop’s literary accolades made her something of a celebrity, but she was not of a mind to assume the role of public intellectual, a la Frost.  Instead, she sought solace in travel, getting far more than she bargained for.  Her Brazilian years are chronicled in Bruno Barreto’s Reaching for the Moon (trailer here), which opens today in New York.

Frustrated with her latest verse, Bishop opts for a change of scenery.  Assuming she will not stay long, Bishop accepts an invitation from her old college friend Mary.  They probably should have had a romantic relationship, but neither was quite ready to face up to their sexual identities at the time.  Now Mary is in a committed relationship with the accomplished modernist architect Lota de Macedo Soares—or at least she thinks she is. 

Initially, the brash Soares and the socially clumsy Bishop clash rather badly, but the former warms to the latter as she recognizes the poet’s neurotic vulnerabilities.  Before long, they are deeply involved romantically.  Yet, Soares is determined to maintain a mostly platonic relationship with Mary as well.  Things get rather awkward for the pseudo love triangle, plus there happens to be a military coup brewing.

Frankly, some of the best parts of Moon happen at the margins.  Treat Williams never breaks a sweat as Bishop’s friend and colleague Robert Lowell, but his opening and closing scenes perfectly encapsulate the essence of the film.  Likewise, the film offers some intriguing historical revisionism through its largely sympathetic depiction of Soares’ family friend Carlos Lacerda, the one-time governor of Rio and disillusioned coup supporter (played by Marcello Airoldi, with fine understatement).  Barreto and screenwriters Matthew Chapman and Julie Sayres also incorporate Bishop’s verse into the film in shrewdly organic ways.

However, Bishop and Soares simply never make a convincing couple.  Still, it is not for a lack of trying on Miranda Otto’s part.  She is uncomfortably brittle throughout, leading viewers to suspect Bishop was a borderline Asperger’s case, whose symptoms were exacerbated by her admitted alcoholism. Nevertheless, Otto pulls us into Bishop’s interior turmoil rather effectively.  It is a showy performance, but not excessively so in a Meryl Streepy kind of way.  In contrast, Glória Pires’ Soares basically comes in two speeds: tough talking go-getter and bereft basket case.

Moon looks gorgeous, bringing to mind Barreto’s underappreciated Bossa Nova, but it lacks the equivalent of Eumir Deodato’s lovely lilting score.  A quality period production that should delight Rio’s tourism bureau, Moon is long on atmosphere, but the drama is a bit overwrought at times.  Of course, it is all quite demur compared to Abdellatif Kechiche’s Blue is the Warmest Color.  Regardless, admirers of Brazilian culture should appreciate the pleasant ambiance and moments of insight (“this is how we do things in Latin America,” Soares nonchalantly says of the coup) when Reaching for the Moon opens today (11/8) in New York at the Paris Theatre uptown and the Angelika Film Center downtown.

Sayles’ Go for Sisters

To judge from John Sayles’ latest, everyone in Tijuana’s Chinatown is involved in human trafficking.  It is not quite the case of profiling that it might sound like.  Everybody in the sin-ridden border town is up to something according to Sayles’ Go for Sisters (trailer here), which opens tomorrow in New York.

Back in the day, Bernice and Fontayne were close friends and fellow cheerleaders. Then a mister came between the two high school girls who could “go for sisters.”  They went their very divergent ways after their falling out.  Twenty years later, Bernice is the by-the-book parole officer assigned Fontayne’s case.  At first, she wants none of her former friend’s excuses, but she uncharacteristically gives Fontayne a pass on a minor infraction.  Initially, she is a little uncomfortable with Fontayne’s resulting gratitude, but she soon calls in the marker. 

Apparently her son has fallen in with the criminal element and has gone missing south of the border.  Bernice will need Fontayne’s help navigating the shadowy world of gangs and vice.  Obviously, human trafficking is a little out of the recovering addict’s league, so they duly recruit the more seasoned services of Freddy “The Terminator” Suárez, a disgraced ex-cop who knows people on both sides of the law and both sides of the border.

To an extent, Sisters represents something of a return to form for Sayles after the profoundly disappointing anti-imperialist finger-wagging of Amigo.  Like his best films, Sisters is a character-driven affair that lets every quietly revelatory scene play out in its own patient time. 

However, his thriller mechanics are a bit rusty.  We never really see any of the bad guys and frankly they never act all that menacing. (Particularly problematic, the few Asian characters we briefly encounter are clumsy stereotypes, such as Mother Han, the Godmother of the Tijuana Chinatown mob.) Sayles might be a veteran writer for hire, but he would make Chekhov wince when the mysterious smuggling tunnel Bernice and Fontayne are invited to explore never factors at all in the later narrative.

What works for Sisters are its three primary co-leads.  LisaGay Hamilton and Yolanda Ross are terrific together, convincingly conveying all the complicated history shared by Bernice and Fontayne.  As Suárez, Edward James Olmos raises steely reserve to a high art.  It is also nice to see Hector Elizondo turn up in a cameo, even if his scene serves little dramatic purpose.

Despite the supposed ticking clock, Sisters ambles along at Sayles’ typically unhurried pace. It feels like a Sayles movie, which is cool, even if it undercuts its genre ambitions.  Even if it is not a breakneck thriller, Sayles provides a sympathetic showcase for his cast.  Refreshingly free of polemics, Go for Sisters is recommended (with respect rather than passion) for those who appreciate understated drama.  It opens tomorrow (11/8) in New York at the AMC Empire and the Village East.

Filthy Gorgeous: It’s a Publishing Story

Bob Guccione hired a lot of science and science fiction writers for Omni Magazine. He published other stuff too.  Of course, that is what built his publishing empire and it is why he is now getting the documentary profile treatment in Barry Avrich’s Filthy Gorgeous: the Bob Guccione Story (trailer here), a selection of this year’s Toronto International Film Festival, which premieres this Friday on EPIX.

Originally, painting was Guccione’s calling.  He was more or less content to live the hand-to-mouth life of a struggling artist in Europe, but his first wife—not so much.  Moving to fill a void, Guccione originally conceived Penthouse as the domestic British answer to Playboy, but he quickly recognized the American circulation titan was vulnerable to upstart competition and moved in on its turf.  Guccione initially served as the staff photographer, because he could not afford anyone else, but obviously those duties agreed with him.  Readers (or whatever the correct term might be) seemed to agree, until things started to turn in the 1990s.

Frankly, Filthy is much more interesting when analyzing the collapse of the Guccione empire than celebrating its rise.  An entire film could probably be made on the tempestuous production of Caligula and it would be far more watchable than the train wreck resulting from Guccione’s battles with Tinto Brass.  There were also cash-draining misadventures with a cold fusion reactor scam and an aborted Atlantic City casino.  More costly in the long term, Guccione fundamentally lacked a vision for the whole internet thing, just like his archrival, Hugh Hefner.

There is some fascinating, honest to goodness publishing history in Filthy.  There are also plenty of reminisces about what a progressive gentleman Guccione was in his business dealings and how shy he was in private.  That is all very nice, but it gets repetitive quickly. Likewise, attempts to position Guccione as yet another First Amendment crusader fall flat, notwithstanding the efforts of Alan Dershowitz.  In fact, the lack of critical voices in Filthy is a serious flaw.  There really should be someone somehow associated with Vanessa Williams tearing into him for the nude photo scandal.

Naturally, Avrich periodically gives viewers peaks behind the magazine covers, because duh.  Yet, the sequence that resonates the strongest describe attempts by Guccione, Jr. (a rather candid interview subject) and several of his father’s loyalists to take the magazine in a more demur Men’s Health or Maxim direction.  There is something to their arguments that might have been explored in greater length.  Needless to say, Guccione, Sr. went in the opposite direction with dire financial consequences.

The magnitude of Guccione’s downfall is almost worthy of classical tragedy.  As a posthumous profile, there is no escaping the inevitable, but the closing fifteen minutes or so are surprisingly sad.  Still, there are some worthy object lessons for budding media moguls in Filthy regarding the importance of seizing opportunities and acknowledging seismic shifts in the marketplace.  There are also pictures of naked women, scrupulously selected for their comparative tastefulness.  Conspicuously one-sided but still consistently interesting, Filthy Gorgeous is recommended to mature viewers for the documentary equivalent of its articles when it airs on EPIX this Friday night (11/8).

Iranian New Wave: Dead End

It sounds creepy, but it was not uncommon practice for Iranian men to follow prospective wives as part of their due diligence.  The men were supposed to be cautious and the women were supposed to be grateful.  One revolution later, certain things remain the same, if not more so.  As a result, one young woman jumps to conclusions when she recognizes a distinguished looking man haunting her street in Parviz Sayyad’s Dead End, which screens during the Asia Society’s Iranian New Wave 1960s-1970s film retrospective.

Pretty but hopelessly naïve, the young woman living with her widowed mother has strangely not received much attention from marriageable men.  Initially, she is somewhat confused when she notices the tall mystery man loitering outside their flat.  Since they live on the titular dead end street, there is not much to bring him to their neighborhood.  Assuming he has honorable intentions, she quickly starts fantasizing about their potential union.  However, Sayyad constantly slips viewers hints the unmarried woman’s hopes will not be consummated.

Considered a not-so veiled critique of the Shah’s rule, Dead End remains banned by the Islamist regime.  It is not hard to see why, given its overt themes of surveillance.  There is also a rather biting subtext regarding gender inequalities that is even more subversive under the Revolutionary government.

There is indeed plenty of open anger in Dead End, but it never sacrifices the highly personal drama for the sake of polemics. This is first and foremost the woman’s story, as painful and demoralizing as we expect it will be. Mary Apik’s lead performance is exquisitely sensitive, conveying a lifetime of disappointments and the acute vulnerability of her circumstances. It is a necessarily restrained performance, but it is hard to shake its quiet power.  In contrast, Parviz Bahador projects an apt air of danger yet is also quite charismatic in a coolly severe sort of way as the man following her.

While Jamsheed Akrami’s Lost Cinema provides some useful cultural context to fully appreciate Dead End, patrons should also bear in mind it gives away the emotionally devastating final twist. Still, many scenes take on additional significance when viewers know what fate ultimately holds in store for the woman.  Regardless, both films are fitting selections for the Asia Society’s Iranian New Wave film series.  In fact, Dead End is arguably a classic of world cinema that unquestionably ought to be more widely seen.  Highly recommended, it screens this Saturday (11/9) with Sayyad and Akrami scheduled to participate in a Q&A session afterwards.

Paris Countdown: Another Sleepless Night

Victor and Milan ought to stick to slinging drinks. Delivering a shipment of cash to a Mexican cartel predictably turns out to be really bad way to work off their debts.  It leads to all kinds of problems in Edgar Marie’s Paris Countdown (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

It was all Milan’s fault and Victor is not about to forget it.  Forced to accompany his partner to Juarez, Victor gets the worst of it when the Federales bust their hand-off.  After a rough interrogation session, they are “convinced” to testify against their French contact, the psychotic Serki, whom the nightclub proprietors know will come looking for revenge if he ever gets out of prison.  That is exactly what happens six years later.

Victor has not talked to Milan since their Mexican misadventure.  He still bears the scars and the hearing aid from his close encounter with a power drill.  Yes, he is carrying a grudge, so when Wilfried, his mobbed-up sushi restauranteur colleague, offers him the chance to set-up Milan, he matter-of-factly agrees.  However, Victor finds betrayal is far more difficult once he comes face-to-face with his former friend again.  Against his better judgment, Victor will flee into the night with Milan, trying to stay one step ahead of Wilfried’s henchmen and the slightly put-out Serki.

Countdown is aesthetically reminiscent of several recent French noirs, including Frederic Jardin’s more action-oriented Sleepless Night and Philippe Lefebrve’s massively cool character-driven Paris By Night.  In terms of style, Countdown essentially splits the difference between the two.  Frankly, it is not as accomplished as either, but it still has its merits.  In fact, the world-weariness of its primary protagonists and general vibe of nocturnal angst are quite compelling.  Neither Milan nor Victor is any sort of action hero.  Clearly, both are physically past their prime, struggling to deal with their night of madness.

Olivier Marchal (the director of the similarly hardboiled 36^th Precinct) is appropriately haggard yet appealing roguish as the exceptionally irresponsible Milan.  Jacques Gamblin clearly has less fun as Victor, but he is convincingly nebbish as the sad sack.  Unfortunately, Carlo Brandt’s Serki looks even older and more broken down than they do, making him a problematic villain.

As a thriller, Countdown has enough atmosphere and attitude to get the job done.  For his feature directorial debut, Marie shows a competent command of the elements, but the MVPs are clearly Marchal and cinematographer Danny Elsen, who gives it a fitting Miami Vice-like sheen.  Recommended for fans of French thrillers, Paris Countdown opens this Friday (11/8) in New York at the Cinema Village.

The Visitor, Because Life Wasn’t Weird Enough Without It

Atlanta is a sinful city, where every damn street is called Peachtree.  A cosmic warrior has come to straighten things out here.  He will do battle with the pre-pubescent girl who has made the world such a crummy place in the ever-so strange 1979 Italian-produced sci-fi knock-off, The Visitor (trailer here), directed by Giulio Paradisi as Michael J. Paradise, which has been re-mastered and re-released by Drafthouse Films.

In a dimension “beyond imagination,” a mysterious old man seeks out the remnants of the evil Sateen, a demonic entity he vanquished eons ago.  Evidently, some of his old foe’s essence ended up on earth, specifically within Barbara Collins’s ancestors.  She is one of the rare carriers who can give birth to his malevolent offspring.  Unfortunately, she already has one child, the dreadful little Katy.  Her boyfriend Raymond Armstead is pressuring her to get married and have more children, because he is part of an apocalyptic secret society that frequently holds awkward board meetings devoted to promoting evil.  Collins resists, ostensibly for the sake of her freedom.  However, she is also instinctively against anything Katy is for.

You might think the bad guys would do anything to protect the birthing abilities of the only woman who can deliver Sateen’s bad seeds.  Well, obviously you are not part of an international satanic cult.  Poor Collins is shot, partially paralyzed, run off the road, and attacked by a falcon.  Yet, despite all the stress, her skin remains remarkably clean and radiant.  As Armstead and Katy plot against her, the gaunt Jerzy Colsowicz arrives to do battle with Sateen’s spawn.  That’s right, it’s a frail septuagenarian versus an eight year-old, so get ready to rumble.

It goes without saying The Visitor is a strange film.  Everyone compares it to The Omen and Close Encounters, but Paradisi/Paradise probably rips-off The Birds more than anything else. For whatever reason, bird attacks seem to be the weapon of choice for good guys and bad guys alike. It is just plain baffling anyone thought this film could cash in on the late 1970’s sci-fi craze, but it boasts a truly once-in-a-lifetime cast, including John Huston (the John Huston), Lance Henriksen, Glenn Ford, Franco Nero (uncredited as the Christ-like figure), Shelley Winters, Switchblade Sisters’ Joanne Nail, Mel Ferrer, Sam Peckinpah (the Sam Peckinpah), and future Libertarian radio talk show host Neal Boortz.  Get your head around that ensemble.

Frankly, Huston looks rather bemused in each of his scenes as Colsowicz and it is a good bet he never saw bothered to watch the finished product.  Ford and Winters soldier through like the old pros they are, playing the cop and the nanny, respectively.  Eventual fan favorite Henriksen also shows an early affinity for scenery chewing as Armstead.  In truth, aside from maybe Huston and Nero, nobody really phoned The Visitor in, but it is anyone’s guess what they thought they were doing in this convoluted, New Agey plot.  There are times the film appears to be conceived as a showcase for Atlanta’s modernist architecture, which makes as much sense as any other explanation.

Visitor’s special effects are crude and confusing, even by 1970’s standards, but in its straight-forward dramatic scenes, the picture looks surprisingly slick.  Naturally, even the music “borrows” from another film, but it must be conceded Franco Micallizzi’s riff on Strauss’ “Zarathustra” is oddly catchy, in a funky (arranger) David Matthews-Kudu Records kind of way.

If you don’t get The Visitor by now, you’re on your own.  If you enjoy completely cracked cult cinema, this is your catnip.  Impressive in its way, it demands to be seen to be believed.  Recommended for those who can appreciate the sheer defiant spectacle of it all, The Visitor screens this weekend (11/8 & 11/9) at the IFC Center in New York.