Sunday, April 30, 2006

2006 SFIFF—Gabrielle

Patrice Chéreau's Gabrielle, with—as Beverly Berning has noted in her program capsule—its ready comparison to Ingmar Bergman's Scenes From A Marriage, was just opening in Paris when I was there last September, trailers were screening in the cineplexes and posters were ubiquitous in the metro, so out of a sense of nostalgia I felt compelled to catch the screening at Pacific Film Archives. Press had been teased that Isabelle Huppert might actually attend so I also went on the slim chance that tease would manifest. Alas, no Isabelle. Nor, if I understand correctly, will she be showing up for the Pacific Film Archive's Huppert June retrospective. A pity. I would have loved to have seen her in her incandescent pale flesh.

Winning a special jury acting award at the 2005 Venice International Film Festival, even though the film itself was assailed with boos after its screening, Huppert maneuvers Chéreau's cumbersome chamber drama with customary aplomb. Shifting from a restricted interiority to a scandalously candid resignation, she is a complete pleasure to observe even as she withholds motivations. The skin beneath her left eye flinches in nervous recognition of distasteful insights. Her nostrils flare as if the atmosphere of her strictured life smells foul.

As Moira Sullivan reported to the Greencine Daily from the Venice International, "Patrice Chéreau's Gabrielle, based on Joseph Conrad's The Return, proves to be an overambitious project that literally doesn't work on screen." One of the film's primary problems is "the decision to project letters and plot developments onscreen as text. The effect is poor, even embarrassing for its lack of ingenuity." I must agree, as does Daniel Kasman, reporting last September from the 43rd New York Film Festival who felt Gabrielle was "inconsistently energized by title cards yelling dialog [her husband] Jean fails to say."

Kasman, however, does commend one of the film's best scenes, and perhaps the gist of Joseph Conrad's concept of "the return": "[P]erhaps the most incisive and invigorating remark in this dully antiquated drama is a rare moment of self-inquiry from Gabrielle . . . who tells her husband that loving the man she was going to run off with was 'too demanding' and that if she truly loved Jean she could not have been able to return; she is only able to come back, face him, and live life as normal because their lack of love makes such interactions easier. These are stunning spoken admissions, and ones far more candid and insightful than any of Jean's bumbling attempts to explain or repair the clarity of his marriage's loveless basis."

Though writing about Hou Hsiao-hsien's Three Times, Juan Manuel Freire notes: "The initially intrusive use of silent movie subtitles becomes another successful stylistic flourish, emphasizing the artifice of intercourses in a society that hides every passion and truth beneath luxurious costumes and furniture." In regretful hindsight, I wish I could have seen Three Times to compare these stylistic intertitular flourishes with Gabrielle. A pity they were not more successful in the latter.

What worked for me the best, however, along with Huppert in the title role, was the film's disturbing score by Fabio Vacchi. Reminiscent of Hermann's work for Hitchcock, the score leant an anguished and jolting anxiety to the film's depiction of social complacency.

2006 SFIFF—The Evening Class Interview With Lev Yilmaz

At the opening night party—inbetween my first Skyy martini that was already enough and my third which made me thirsty for a fourth—I was introduced by my filmbud Gustavo Fernandez to Lev Yilmaz, creator of Tales of Mere Existence, which will be included among the collection of animated shorts—Drawing Lines—this coming Thursday noon at the Kabuki. Sample sketches of Tales of Mere Existence"The Times I Have Smoked Pot", "Horny", "My Successful Friends", "Goodlooking" and "Pickle"—can be found online. They only whetted my appetite, however, so Gustavo loaned me his copies of the first two dvds of Tales of Mere Existence available from Lev's website. I found them hilarious and approached Lev for an interview.

* * *

The Evening Class: How did you start going with Tales of Mere Existence? Did you have training in college?

LY: To a degree. I went to art school. I didn't really study film. I studied art video and other forms of drawing, painting and whatnot. I really did wind up adding an unusual approach to it. I never learned anything about doing the proper narrative. I've been doing my own video work for a while and then I did the first piece in this style just completely as an experiment. But it was so simple and it was so much fun that I just did another one. And then after maybe about three or four I started thinking that it actually could be a series because I had never really done anything that was a series before. So through the evolution of that I think is really when that—the more I did it—the more important the story became to me every time and now it winds up being absolutely the top of everything. Everything is very story-oriented.

EC: A perfect voice for you! Just as an aside, have you seen Art School Confidential?

LY: Sure.

EC: What'd you think? Any similar experiences with that?

LY: Some. Weirdly enough, even though I did go to art school, I think I related to Ghost World more. Art School Confidential has, perhaps, a lot more normal moviemaking sensibilities to it. To me, anyway, Ghost World was one of the greatest little portraits of this general sort of alienation that really really hit home to me, probably I think one of the best documents—one of the really best high-profile documents of freak pride that I've ever seen.

EC: The technique that you use in your animation, how would you describe it? Is it parchment paper you're using?

LY: I actually completely lifted the technique really from an obscure old arthouse movie called The Mystery of Picasso where the filmmaker [Clouzot] spent a few days with Picasso in his studio. Picasso painted on transluscent canvases and [Clouzot] shot him from the other side, shot the canvases from the other side. I sort of took that and just added narration to it. Naturally, my drawing style is incredibly crude and I only care about getting the point across then I will stop the drawings there.

EC: The point getting across is the point! The narrative. I'm sure Picasso did not have your acerbic witty narrative.

LY: He made up for it in other ways. [Laughter.]

EC: That's what is pleasing people. When I first saw it I just busted a gut because there's something about the combination of the simplicity of the line drawings in process, and then the voiceover. So what I was wondering was, do you film first, and then you add soundtrack?

LY: Oh no. The part that takes the longest is definitely getting the story right. It's not just getting the story right, but it's also just making sure that there isn't a single wasted word in there. Generally the way that I'll do it is I'll write it and then I'll do a mock recording. I'll just read it out, and then I'll listen to it, I'll listen to it a few times. Usually, I'll drink about a half bottle of wine. I figure if it holds my attention if I'm half-drunk it will hold anybody's attention when they're completely sober.

EC: So it's real-time as it's filmed? You're actually drawing and talking at the same time?

LY: No. Because I record the soundtrack first.

EC: Gotcha. That's what I was wondering about.

LY: If there's any animator in the world who doesn't record the soundtrack first, I don't know about them. Somebody must do it but very very few people do.

EC: That just draws focus on just how excellent the timing of the editing is, the way you've already structured a picture and then just add a few things, then the voiceover, it's so skillfully done. Are you really that character? Who is that character?

LY: It's definitely like, y'know, it's part of me. I think as a person I definitely cope better than I think the character does but it's probably definitely the part of me that doesn't feel like coping. That sort of thing.

EC: What I like about him is he's a guy with dark thoughts. Your portraits of envy, of bitterness, of jealousy are acute and spot on. I was watching it again for about the fifth time, every time I show it to a new friend because I keep turning them on to it, and it's always interesting to me to see them go, "I know that! I know that!" Especially the most popular ones are "Procrastination". Everybody knows that one. I've had several guys relate to the one about the ex-girlfriends and the sex they're having with their current partners. A lot of people like that one. I've only seen the first two and you have a third one coming out?

LY: Yeah, it's going to be coming out pretty soon. The more that it goes on, the more that it expands. And probably my favorite piece which I am going to be showing on Thursday at the festival is a piece called "Conversation" that is probably one of my favorite episodes of the series, I think. It's different because it's a conversation between two people and I'm saying, "And then I said" "and then she said" and just kind of narrating it out like that. But it's the conversation that the couple has in the video store trying to figure out what to rent and it winds up completely bringing up all this fucked up stuff that's happened in their relationship.

EC: Great! So where do the ideas come from?

LY: Where do you think that one came from?! [Laughter] I almost didn't have to write that one. That one was taken moreorless verbatim from a conversation with a girl … a wonderful girl that I was with for a few years, but it didn't work out. But it was taken essentially verbatim from that.

EC: I enjoy the pacing of the humor. Especially I noticed by the second one, I watched the first one and you had developed certain ideas, but by the second one you got a little tighter and you started to do this very rapid delivery. The timing is hilarious. Do you have certain comics that you emulate or that you picked that up from, that kind of comic timing?

LY: The funny thing is that a lot of the influences that I wound up having are influences of probably a generation before mine. I was very much a loner when I was a kid so the sorts of things that … and really, more than watching t.v., I stole a bunch of my dad's old comedy records so that a lot of—I bet you that a lot of the pacing kind of comes from just listening to comedians from the early 60s. I was a huge huge fan of the early Bill Cosby comedy records, the ones that he did before he became America's favorite t.v. dad. He was just an outstanding stand-up comedian, a storyteller really. Him, and a bunch of old Mike Nichols and Elaine May records. It's just something that I began to just sort of … the more that I was playing with material of my own, I began to really realize that even a quarter of a second can be the difference between not funny and funny.

EC: Exactly! That's what I'm saying. The timing is impeccable and it's counterpointed against a drollness, kind of a throwaway delivery. That's what makes it work. It's perfect.

LY: The droning delivery, that I definitely started in the early pieces. Everybody starts from somewhere and that delivery was absolutely influenced by Stephen Wright but then it changed after a while, it really evolved.

EC: Tell me about the Comedy Central gig; what's that about?

LY: What happened was that I was on a—it still shows every once in a while, I don't think very often—but it was this late-night stoner program called Jump Cuts. Usually when they first brought it out it was on at midnight and now every once in a while still they'll have—they only made four episodes of this thing, I was in all four episodes—but now they have marathons every once in a while starting at two and ending at four and just show all four episodes of Jump Cuts. Since then, now that a lot of the material is out on their podcasts, you can get it online. If you find it, let me know. I don't have a video Ipod so I haven't actually even seen it myself.

EC: I'll go looking for it. You're primarily a completely independent entrepreneur, right?

LY: Absolutely, I'm a one-man band.

EC: I'm impressed with that. How is the website working for you?

LY: My website?

EC: Yeah, do you have outreach? Are you getting orders through the website?

LY: Absolutely! That's one of the things that's been pretty amazing is that I've really managed to move a remarkable number of copies of the books. It is completely doing it myself. I'm surprised that it's worked as well as it has. I'm not really part of the comics community much but guys in the comics community have said that the number of copies I've been able to sell just entirely by myself without a distributor even has been very competitive to like the average—not like a Marvel comic release but an alternative comic release—that I've really given them a run for their money.

EC: That's great! Is that an independence you want to maintain or are you looking for a distributor?

LY: I would love to find a distributor! I would love to find a publisher! The thing is people are just … how easy do you think it was for the first guy who invented the smoothie to get it off the ground? It's an apple, right? No, it's not, it's kind of an apple and an orange. But is it an orange or is it an apple, I can't tell? People will freak and fuck out anytime you do anything that is even a little bit out of the ordinary like that. It's been hard to get your normal comic strip distributors or your book distributors to pay any attention to it. If I don't find a distributor, it's really not that bad to continue to do it myself. Whatever.

EC: Would you do stand-up comedy, anything like that? Is that something you'd be interested in?

LY: When I hear the term "stand-up comedy" I practically twitch because I've seen so few stand-up comedians that I really like. But I've got a great admiration—instead of stand-up comedy I kind of wonder when I don't know if I want to carry on this form of thing—I wonder if storytelling appears to sort of work in this same kind of vein, closer to the way when you hear David Sedaris talking, it's hilarious, his delivery is great.

EC: Or Guy Maddin! Have you heard Guy Maddin?

LY: I'm not sure.

EC: He's hilarious.

LY: The ones that I've heard the most of is mainly Sedaris. I've heard Douglas Adams reading a few of his books, which were wonderful, so I wonder about that. I've started to give that a little bit of thought. I've done … there's a few … because I've started to do it actually, to do some storytelling live, and it's totally fucking nervewracking but it's also an awful lot of fun.

EC: Where do you do that?

LY: You're a local, right?

EC: Yes.

LY: I did Porchlight once and that was a blast! It was really really a lot of fun. And then I did a reading over at—I don't even remember what the show was—sometime late last year. And then did it again over at some smaller places, these like small performances that my friend puts on. But I'm thinking about getting more into it.

EC: Do you ever go to the Bad Movie nights at the Dark Room on Mission?

LY: Jesus Christ, of course!

EC: You would be a great funny guest commentator. You know how they have three or four guys, usually in front, commenting on the movie?

LY: You know something? There are very different kinds of senses of humor that people have. I'm not one of those people. I'm lucky that, occasionally, if I'm really comfortable with people then I can be a fast commentator. Do you ever know some of those people who are incredibly incredibly funny on their feet and can react and respond to anything and really make you laugh? And you would think, wow, I betcha this person would be a great comedy writer! It almost never works. Because since their sense of humor they're able to express in this way, they don't have a need to express it in another way. The people who are funniest on paper are just because they're frustrated, they can't think fast enough on their feet, they're funny in another way, another avenue. It's something I've seen a million times. There are exceptions of course, but, it's a tendency I've seen.

EC: You have the third disk coming out. So what's in your future? What are you aiming for? What do you see going on?

LY: I would really like the most if I could find a publisher or distributor or whatnot. I wonder if it would happen easier actually in Europe rather than here because the stuff has gone over rather well in America but the audiences respond even stronger in Europe.

EC: You've tested that?

LY: I actually did a little French tour early last year!

EC: Cool! That's cool! I think you're one of the finest young comic talents that I've seen in a long time. And I watch a lot. I really appreciate that you give me the time to talk a little bit. I want to watch what you do. I'll definitely see you this coming Thursday at noon!

Saturday, April 29, 2006

2006 SFIFF—Artists on Other Artists

Jean-Claude Carrièr on Luis Buñuel:

I was a priest in Diary of A Chambermaid, and in The Milky Way a little later I was a bishop, up in the hierarchy. Buñuel was telling me all the time, "You're a very good actor, very good, but only for ecclesiastic professions, don't try to play anything else." So one day in another film not made by Buñuel I played—because we were lacking money—I played a veterinarian, y'know? A vet. We showed the film to Buñuel, we liked it, the film was full of animals, an interesting French film. At the end I asked Buñuel, "How did you like my acting?" And he said, "You're a very very good actor, but only for ecclesiastics and veterinarians."

Carrièr quotes Buñuel: "We always have to follow people who are looking for truth and run away from people who have found it."

* * *

Tilda Swinton on Derek Jarman:

I was asked yesterday some question about my time with Derek Jarman and I had a strange kind of wormhole moment when I … for a second my mind imagined—but really only for a split second—my own history without having met him. It was the strangest experience. He's kind of in my dna I think. The privilege of having met him and lived alongside him for nine years, I don't know, I'd also been looking for him on some level. He lit a torch and so many of us who knew him, worked with him, were young at the time and he was our first experience of not only making cinema but making art …. He was really a parent and I mean that in the least creepy way. He was extraordinary as I sort of maybe tried one version of a letter to him actually. I think it's possibly because of my letter to him that Graham [Leggat] might have asked me to come tonight. …That letter to Derek was trying to bring him up to date with what might have happened in the last—at that stage it had been eight years since he unaccountably left the building—and it's still difficult to believe that he has, but, there was this very strange time after he had when it really felt like all of us couldn't really do very much. Slowly we started to wake up again. His effect was to channel something, which was just the idea of living as an artist like him, more really than what he was doing. The fact that he was doing anything at all in the way in which he did it, particularly at the time at which he did it, was really a privilege to be around. He taught us all to be lawless or encouraged us all to believe in our own lawlessness, which I can't recommend more highly.

2006 SFIFF—The Evening Class Interview with Fernando "Pino" Solanas

My heartfelt thanks to Hilary Hart and her publicity staff for granting me 15 minutes to talk to Fernando Solanas, director of The Dignity of the Nobodies (which I've written up previously). What a welcome opportunity! With my broken Spanish and the able translations of Oscar Arteta, I was able to touch upon a few points with Solanas.

* * *

EC: When I first saw Dignity of the Nobodies, I was both sad and hopeful; sad because it seemed to me something that could happen to U.S. citizens if we aren't careful and vigilant, and hopeful because the Argentines are setting an example of what people can do in such a crisis. Do you remain hopeful? As hopeful as when you were making the documentary?

FS: Yes, of course. Yes, yes.

EC: What can people in the United States do to help the Argentine people in this situation?

FS: Look, one of the things that occurs to me—we were talking about it earlier today—is of course the development of different kinds of information because the information given by this film does not reach the media, it doesn't arrive to you. The U.S. society is a very misinformed society. They end up thinking that in Argentina nothing happens, there's no reaction. It's a scandal to me! I see in all the press here there is no news about Latin America and in all our countries every day things are happening. There's nothing more dangerous than censorship and the lack of information, because those are the same mediums through which demons are invented. Of course, people read inbetween the lines, search on the web, in magazines, to find other information but the majority are victims of this censorship and lack of information. So what do you do to make the information system in North America and the United States more democratic? How do you change it? Nothing happens, it's terrible! It's been a week since I've been here. I started in L.A. I spend many hours in the hotel and at night I don't go out; I stay in the hotel. It's sad, the misinformation, or the lack of information, how poor the newscasts are. On the other hand, there are no alternative distribution systems or channels for a film like The Dignity of the Nobodies.

EC: Is this what you mean by the "culture of defeat"?

FS: Oh yes, of course, of resignation, of giving up, of believing it is impossible to bring about change, that the neoliberal movement cannot be changed, that globalization cannot be changed.

EC: That's what was so inspiring to me about the documentary: it provided a model of change.

FS: Of course.

EC: I saw the film more as a radical poem than a documentary. It reminded me of a short poem by Antonio Machado. Do you know Machado?

FS: Yes….

EC: Do you know this poem? [I recite in Spanish]: El ojo que ves no es / ojo porque tú lo veas / es ojo parque te ve. [His eyebrows lift and he nods his head approvingly.] What this reminds me of in your work is how—as a documentary filmmaker, you don't just observe, you allow the people you're filming to become real and engaged, you grant them sovereignty. I understand that when you were filming The Dignity of the Nobodies, you had to change cameras in order to achieve that communication, switching from a larger shoulder-borne camera to a handheld. Can you speak about the uses of various cameras to create a more realistic portrait?

FS: Well, in this movie Dignity, there are nine minutes of archived material that I did not film. The rest, an hour and 50 minutes, is material that I filmed myself looking to find the same cinematic language. Most of it is like a very subjective camera living alongside the people. It's a camera with a wide-angle lens that is always in my hand. Half of this film is filmed with this little camera [he shows me a photo of a mini-DV] and the other half is filmed with a Sony DVcam 150, which is also a small camera.

EC: But the smaller one worked better to establish friendship and cooperation?

FS: They're both cameras that people don't regard as professional cameras from t.v. Aside from that, the people know me, they have affection for me, they respect me, they know that I make movies that express them very well.

EC: I was interested also that you brought back the tradition of the coplas to introduce each character. Can you talk a little bit about the payador tradition and why you use it?

FS: In the popular tradition in the 19th century there was the payador, he was like the one that chronicled life on the pampas. He would ride around the countryside on his horse with his guitar and when he would get to a puntenilla, which was like a mixture of a meat market and a corner store in the middle of nowhere, it was like a house where a gaucho could go, he would have a drink, and tell stories, his chronicles, for the coins people would give him. But he would tell his news with some kind of art; it was the art of popular poetry.

EC: The combination of the two—your using modern, small cameras to capture campesino testimonials while utilizing this ancient payador tradition—was fantastic!

FS: I thought it was necessary to have a more sensitive level, a synthesis, to summarize and introduce each one of these stories, especially the characters. So each character has a copla that follows the tradition of the gaucho poetry, which was initiated by Martin Fierro. Martin Fierro is the poem that is most well-known and the most beautiful poem of all Argentine poetry, written in 1872, and it talks about the odyssey of a gaucho who was persecuted. The army used to go to the pampas and try to inscript the gauchos who were free to go and fight against the Indians, the natives. Gauchos and Indians, they lived in peace before. So this is the poem and The Dignity of the Nobodies follows that tradition, but with a more simplified language, one that is more urban. Though not exactly, it approximated the gaucho language and in that way each character was introduced with verses. I like it because it creates a certain environment, it gives a heightened level of sensitivity. Some people don't like it at all but, inside of a work of art you can have different levels of language.

EC: Yes, the film is multi-layered.

FS: Exactly! That's the way it is.

EC: You have stated that you are hoping "to preserve memory against oblivion." So it seems to me that you're saying memory is a political act that counters the systematic erasure of history.

FS: Memory is good. In the '90s until now the media in Argentina has lied a lot, has falsified history. The media is financed by big corporations and the banks. Hence, it was necessary to make a film of opinions that would analyze what had happened and why. Of course for the economic powers of neoliberalism, the banks and all of them, this film is just pure trash.

EC: But we know better!!

FS: [Chuckling.] I'm making these films and trying to chronicle history. They're films that over there will be more or less public but they will last because they are real testimonies. At the same time, I want to—because I am making a movie—I want to write it very well, to film it well, because the same information could be taught by a professor in history or sociology. It would have the same information but without the emotional impact. This movie, The Dignity of the Nobodies and its predecessor A Social Genocide [Solanas actually translates it as Memories of a Plunder], they have been declared in Argentina to be of educational interest. So with regard to the news that the teacher can bring his students, now all the students can bring him to see the film, and then have a debate over it. More than 40,000 students in high school have seen Memories of a Plunder—that's high school students!!—through a program that allows low ticket prices, almost nothing. The programs are aided by the Ministry of Education or the Institute of Film.

EC: Well, they're telling me I have to wrap it up here. Before parting, I must say that I consider you a magnificent teacher!! Thank you for your all your work.

[Solanas then asked if he could take a look at my recorder. He was fascinated by it. Asked me how it worked. If it had a cassette. I told him, no, it was digital with a memory stick and that I had an attachment that allowed me to upload the recordings to my computer. He asked if he could hear what I had recorded and I played it back for him to listen. He whistled approvingly. I told him that, if I had two of them, I would gladly give him one. Next time!! We laughed.]

05/13/06 Addendum: Josh Wolf at The Revolution Will Be Televised filmed Fernando Solanas during his Q&A after the screening of The Dignity of the Nobodies.

David D'Arcy interviewed Solanas for The Greencine Daily.

Thursday, April 27, 2006

2006 SFIFF—Famous Directors and Their Funny Animal Stories!!!

The on-stage appearances of both Guy Maddin and Werner Herzog have proven immensely entertaining! Steve Seid and David Sterritt, respectively—and with skilled professionalism—allowed themselves to be turned into straight men for their interviewees who each unexpectedly transformed into stand-up comics!

After complaining that Shelly Duvall was better known for her role in Popeye than in his own Twilight of the Ice Nymphs and that Frank Gorshin's "touchingly antiquated" impersonations weren't everyone's cup of tea (his Jack Nickolson was "amazing" but his Jack Nicklaus was "lame"), Guy Maddin reminisced on Twilight of the Ice Nymphs:

"I remember that whole movie. There's a lot of ostriches in that movie and it was a kind of humiliating experience because I found that I could direct the ostriches better than I could direct the people. They're birds, right? So when it's dark they go to sleep. A couple of times they stampeded around, and I was warned by the ostrich wrangler, 'Watch out for the ostriches, especially the males, they can kick your face off.' Things like that. And then there was a stampede where they destroyed most of my sets one day and we started turning out lights, and they kicked some lights over, and some lights went out, and they immediately got calm. And so I learned that you could direct them by dimmer switch! So it's just a matter of having someone—not a focus puller but an F-stop puller—so while you're dimming the lights you just open the aperture up more and you could agitate the ostriches and then calm them down. It was humiliating to me that I was reduced to sort of just going, "NOW!" These animals would perform perfectly. Because see, you're always told never direct children or animals, it will drive you nuts and things. …They aren't likeable animals. They were constantly pecking at things. Modern slates are made with little Velcro numbers—well, real modern slates now they're all digitalized—but these ones I felt were pretty modern, they had Velcro numbers and all the numbers were missing. And then we'd watch in the rushes, we could see where the ostriches were sort of pecking them off when no one was noticing. And they would peck off your eyeglasses at this distance. And they're about eight feet tall. They're like the reproductive organs of flowers, very strange, that's all I remember, I don't remember Frank Gorshin frankly or anybody else."

* * *

As if Guy Maddin's ostrich anecdote wasn't hilariously engaging enough, Werner Herzog got his audience roaring responding to an inquiry by a woman in the audience who had read a story about a man in Holland who had been in charge of finding thousands of brown or black rats for one of Herzog's films and had ended up painting some of them the color Herzog wanted. "Anyway, it was a fascinating story," the woman said but admitted she hadn't seen a film of his with thousands of rats in it and was wondering which film it was.

Herzog replied the film was Nosferatu and qualified, "It's actually eleven thousand!! They were white laboratory rats, snow-white laboratory rats, and no one on earth can paint them individually. We had cages, four hundred of them, and dipped them into the paint." He then went on to recount about the man who was in charge of the rats. Herzog had this big conflict with that man because he misappropriated money meant for feeding the rats. So Herzog took the rats back by force and the bozo almost ran him over with a caterpillar. He was enraged and shoved the caterpillar through the windows of Herzog's car. Herzog jumped out of his car and sort of lay down on the ground in front of the caterpillar hoping to try to stop him but the idiot continued forward and was just about to run Herzog over when the cinematographer pulled him out of danger's way. "So you see," Herzog communicated drolly, "I have conflicted feelings over those rats!"

2006 SFIFF—Alice Braga's Introduction and Q&A for Cidade Baixa (Lower City)

Introducing Sérgio Machado's Cidade Baixa / Lower City, Alice Braga—niece of the radiant Sonia Braga—stated, "Sérgio always says when he introduces the film that he and Karim [Ainouz], the co-writer, they wanted to know who were the young people in Brazil nowadays and where they are and what they do. He chose to do Salvador because it's where he was born. So he portrayed a love story."

Returning to the podium for a Q&A after the screening, Alice made us laugh by admitting she was even more shy now that we had seen her naked! I certainly respected her bravery! Of course, if I looked that hot and that beautiful, I could afford to be brave!

Asked how long it had taken to make the film, Alice explained all three actors rehearsed with an acting coach, the boys for six weeks, she for three (she had been traveling and came into the project later), followed by eight weeks of shooting.

One of the audience members had heard that most of the cast of City of God were, in fact, non-actors and wondered if that was the case with Alice? How had she become involved in that project?

"It was funny," she replied, she was just doing theater when they cast her in City of God, she had never acted in a movie and was trying to decide what she wanted to do with her life. Being cast in Lower City was equally as "funny" and Alice claimed she ended up in this film "in a really really crazy way." She was coming to the U.S. to do Oscar press for City of God. The day she was leaving to the airport, Sérgio phoned and said, "Hey, I have a film!" He explained they had a girl they were considering for the role of Karina and that she was great, but, he kept looking at her and saying, "It's not her, it's not her." So he was still looking for the actress to play Karina and wanted to see what Alice might do, could she come and audition? She said, sure, but first she had to go to the U.S. for a week. She came to San Francisco, her first time here, met Carlos Bolado to negotiate Sólo Dios Sabe, then returned to Brazil, accepted the role of Karina in Lower City and worked on that for three months before launching into Sólo Dios Sabe; a "quite crazy" time in her life.

Alice qualified that Karina was her first true opportunity to act, because even though her character in City of God was beautiful and close to her, the director had purposely insisted they not act, he didn't want them to try to do anything. He just wanted her to be a girl living in a different time, in the '70s, that's all. Being Karina was totally different because she was 20 years old—practically a girl—but the rough circumstances of her life had made her a strong woman.

Asked about how the ending of the film was configured, Alice admitted it was an editing decision. The actors were given a script to work with—and Alice bemoaned how long it took her to learn the script—but the script was more to help the acting coach develop the delivery of their lines in a natural way. "We knew what the character needed to talk," Alice explained. Once they got the natural delivery down, then they began to shoot, varying from the script. The film had alternate endings. In one ending they shot a scene with all three of them walking the streets as if they had ended up staying together but it was decided that was too happy—and inauthentic—an ending for a film like Lower City. Sérgio decided to experiment with a more open ending. So first, Alice described, "He did something that was really bizarre on the set. He put a kid dancing and I was like, 'Why? How come you're going to end up with a kid dancing? It doesn't say anything.' "

They shot a lot of film the day they were filming the ending and what was funny was that Sérgio didn't decide until seven months after they had ended filming what he actually wanted. The final close-up of Karina's eyes was shot seven months after the rest of the film. Sérgio had decided that he didn't like Karina looking down at the end, he wanted her character to look up because she was a survivor, a fighter, and she wasn't about to go down no matter what. So Alice had to dye her hair blonde again just to get the final shot.

So as many ways as the ending could have gone, it was decided in the editing not the filming. The script didn't have this ending. "It's hard, isn't it, to do a film?" Alice mused, "Because so many things happen on the set that you can make another film." So many things from the script never made it to the film. "Like at the beginning," Alice offered by example, "the woman that just sell her the sandwich, it started the film with the two of them having sex with her just to show that they used to have women that they used to share." Sérgio elected to cut this out to focus on the triangle with Karina.

One young woman in the audience expressed her surprise to hear Alice state that Karina was her first true acting role. She wondered what it was like for Alice to have to act in the nude, "very compromised." The young woman praised Alice for coming off so natural, so effortless, something she'd rarely seen in a debut performance.

Alice thanked the young woman and admitted the nudity was a huge challenge. "When I read the script," she joked, "I was like, 'Whoa…!' " But the moment she read the script Alice knew she really wanted to play the role. She knew she would learn and grow as an actress, as well as a human being, because Karina, as a character, was such a strong person.

Let alone that she would get to work with the "amazing" Maria Fatima Toledo—who served as the acting coach in such films as City of God, Central Station, Hector Babenco's Pixote, and Andrucha Waddington's Eu Tu Eles—and Wagner Moura, one of her favorite Brazilian actors, and Sérgio Machado, who had worked with Walter Salles for many years. So she knew Lower City was a really good project to be involved in and that they would take care of her as a new actress. The moment she got into the rehearsals with Fatima and the other actors, she learned to shake off her fear and shyness, and to not let anything block her performance.

Before stepping on to the set Sérgio had a huge meeting with the whole crew, explaining that the crew would be reduced for the nude scenes, because Sergio knew how difficult it would be to achieve the intimacy required by the film. He spoke to the crew and asked them to help the actors because they were going to be exposed, physically and emotionally, and needed the crew's protection.

The moment the actors got onto the set, Alice described, everyone was so helpful, it was such a beautiful environment, everyone was taking such good care of them and everyone wanted so badly to film the story that Alice felt completely secure. Before shooting, or every time she had 15 minutes off, the acting coach would be on the set to give her exercises. The entire crew focused and prepared, just like the actors, so the moment Alice had to disrobe, she wasn't even thinking about it, so caught up and crazy about what was happening, that she completely forgot she was naked. The thing that has made her really happy in retrospect is that everyone that sees the film acknowledges her courage.

As an acting coach, Alice says Maria Fatima Toledo believes in connecting actors to the feelings of their characters. She wants to put those feelings into the actor's skin, their body, so their performance will be natural. The process is intense. By way of example, Alice says the scene where Naldinho discovers Karina has moved out of their Lower City apartment, and he hits the door and breaks the mirror, wasn't planned. Wagner Moura was so intensely into his character's passion that he just shattered the mirror with his fist. It's the kind of acting that Sérgio wanted, to be really true to the story, so the audience who sees the film will see that these people exist, and believe in their existence, that they could go to Bahia and find Karina in the streets.

Toledo leads the actors through many exercises, such as Kundalini yoga which is a specific exercise to open the chakras. She encouraged the actors to dance a lot to get into their bodies; Alice danced all day long. She also did exercises to feel the weight of life. Since Karina is a character who has been lonely since she was a kid and has carried that weight of loneliness her whole life, Toledo guided Alice through exercises that helped her achieve that feeling of world weariness. In one exercise Alice used to lay down on the floor and one of the guys from the crew would lay down on top of her and not let her go until she was desperate. "He was the weight of life on my body," she explained, "so that I felt desperate for air."

One woman—who had traveled to the city of Salvador where the film was shot—wanted to know why Sérgio Machado had chosen Salvador as the film's particular setting? And why he had focused exclusively on this underbelly neighborhood when Salvador has so much more to offer?

Alice was glad the woman brought up that inquiry. She answered that Sérgio was from Salvador so he wanted to show it in his first feature, because he loves the city, and even loves the world where Karina and Naldinho live, Cidade Baixa, Lower City, which is the name of the neighborhood. Alice said Sérgio was going to be really glad that the woman had made that comment because he didn't want to shoot Salvador like everyone shoots Salvador. He just wanted to show Lower City, a neighborhood that no one gets to know because it's not on the tourist trail, a neighborhood that Alice describes in Portuguese as sugmundo, a world that society sometimes forgets and purposely hides. Even those places in Salvador that are on the tourist trail, like the elevator that is so often depicted on postcards, Sérgio shot from different angles in hopes of breaking the postcard's perspective.

Understanding that City of God is something of a contemporary barometer of Brazilian film, Alice asserts nonetheless that Brazilians want more than anything to tell a story, even if it is about common everyday people that are specifically Brazilian. City of God opened a lot of doors internationally. It was a film that showed that reality—even a negative reality—could be depicted artistically, professionally, with really well-done editing, cinematography, the works. Alice hopes the Brazilian film industry can keep going and maintain its current pace. She praises new directors like Machado and Marcelo Gomes, whose film Cinema, Aspirinas e Urubus has been receiving international attention. It's a completely different kind of film than Lower City but Alice feels that diversity in the filmmaking is good. "We need to believe more in our country."

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

2006 SFIFF—The Evening Class Interview with Alice Braga


As I mentioned in my earlier entry on this year's Latino Line-up for SFIFF, Alice (pronounced Alicia) Braga has the sweet distinction of having two films screening at this year's festival: Sólo Dios Sabe and Lower City.

I caught up with Alice after yesterday's screening of Lower City. She was excitedly on her way to her first American baseball game but graciously granted me time for a brief interview.


* * *

The Evening Class: Alice, I write for a website called The Evening Class and I'm reporting on Latin-American film to a Canadian website called Twitch.

AB: Nice! Where you from?

EC: I'm from here, San Francisco. I actually know your painter friend Ana Fernandez.

AB: Ah, Ana!! She was here. Yeah, I met her yesterday; she's so sweet!

EC: Well, you have the fortuitous opportunity of having two of your films screening at this year's festival so I thought it would be great to talk about your two characters: Dolores in Sólo Dios Sabe and Karina in Lower City. Both roles are beautiful women dealing with issues of relationship and pregnancy. I just watched you in Lower City and the pregnancy there was left somewhat open-ended whereas it played a crucial role in Sólo Dios Sabe. Not to pit one film against the other, but I loved Sólo Dios Sabe! It's been great to see your work in both films; I cannot believe you're a brand-new actress!

AB: Yeah, I just decided. Actually I started last year, the year that I shot Lower City. I did Lower City, a week after I [finished] Lower City I came to San Francisco to meet the director Carlos Bolado from Sólo Dios Sabe, and I did it. So it was a year that I was just throwing myself into acting.

EC: So you're working with all the fresh young directors? Carlos Bolado, Sérgio Machado, Heitor Dhalia!

AB: Yeah, yeah, it's really nice. It was really great because, after City of God, a door opened for me, I started to study more and to try to grab more stuff so as soon as I started to work in different films I had to quit my university, just [stop] a bit and leave it there to working. But now I'm studying, coming and going, I did some theater when I was in school, I'm just living, step by step, but I was really lucky that I got two beautiful characters to play.

EC: Well, there's luck, but you're following through with the work. You're doing very good work.

AB: Thank you!

EC: Alice, you're such a troublemaker in Lower City! I was wondering if you could speak a little bit about Karina's inability to choose between the two men?

AB: She's really a challenging character for me because she is 20 years old and she has had such a strong life and so many things that she's been through for a girl alone in the world; but she's a woman. So there was this—how they say?—being a woman and a girl at the same time with the same intensity was quite challenging for me. And you asked about choosing between them, right?

EC: Yes.

AB: It's hard because she loves both. Sérgio always said to us—like, for me—that they love each other with the same intensity. It's like an equilateral triangle. Like Deco [Lázaro Ramos] loves Naldinho [Wagner Moura], Naldinho loves Karina, Karina loves Deco and Naldinho with the same intensity. So I think she loves their relationship and their friendship. That's why at the end of it I think she tries to leave and [not] be with them because she knows they're going to kill each other. They can't support sharing her. It's hard to explain. But she loves them both with the same intensity. She loves things in Deco, she loves things in Naldinho, that she can't choose. It was hard! It was hard for me because sometimes [on] the set everyone started to think, nah, but she needs to go for this way or that way, but she can't! And I loved both actors. It was funny because they were always like, "Don't love him more. Don't love him more. Don't love him more than me!" And I was like, "Oh my god!" And it was challenging for that. What do you think? Do you think she loves one more than the other one?

EC: No, I didn't. I thought the ending was perfectly balanced, that you felt all their pain.

AB: That's great! Because it was challenging for us. Sometimes in the script when we read, lots of the people from the crew thought that she liked Deco more. So Wagner, Naldinho, he was like freaking out!

EC: There's a quality that you bring to the Lower City character Karina but also to the character Dolores in Sólo Dios Sabe that I admire—it's in both of them—a quality of worldliness beyond years. Both characters are girls really but you have an ability to communicate with your eyes a mature woman's worldly experience.

AB: Thank you very much. That's so beautiful to hear that, listen, it's good to hear this response.

EC: Can you talk a little bit about Dolores? What drew you to that role? I loved her character!

AB: That's great! She's a really tough role. They have such a thing that shows life, Karina and Dolores, they're both lonely people. Dolores has a mom, her father died when she was a kid, and she doesn't have a good relationship with her mom. She's been far away from her house so she lives in another country, a foreign country, by herself. Karina never had a family, she lives by herself, she's alone in the world. They're two different roles but with similar life, similar feelings, like loneliness.

EC: What I loved about Dolores is that she starts out in Sólo Dios Sabe cynical because she's been taken advantage of, and skeptical of anything spiritual, and yet in the final scenes of that movie I realized that she's the one who believes in this invisible world more than anybody else!

AB: Exactly! She just needed someone to sit down with her and show her a little bit about love and life, and to be in a relationship.

EC: Do you know Andrucha Waddington?

AB: No. I met him in Brazil really briefly, like really fast. But I haven't met him.

EC: I was talking with him yesterday and he told me his new film is going to be Conquistador; it's about Hernan Cortez. You should play Malinche!

AB: But she talks Spanish. I do talk Spanish but I don't know … I don't know, I'm not sure if he has me in his mind….

EC: The next film that you're doing?

AB: A Journey to the End of the Night. It's an American production. They shot in Brazil but it's an American film. We shot in October, last October. My character's a really nice girl. She lives in Brazil. She's one of the survivors, those girls that just survive in the big city and a big environment and she gets a ride with Mos Def's character. He's in the film; it's Mos Def, Brendan Fraser, Scott Glenn, and Catalina Sandino Moreno.


EC: You're getting to work with everybody!!

AB: Yeah, it's really nice! The director [Eric Eason]'s a really independent guy and filmmaker. His first film was Manito. It was really good experience. And now I'm going to start back to release that. I think it's fine. It's a really nice film, this one.

EC: You'll be here also for the screening of Sólo Dios Sabe?

AB: No, I won't be able because I'm going to be there doing press for that one. [A Journey to the End of Night is having its world premiere at the Tribeca Film Festival on Friday, the 28th.]

EC: Oh, well, then I'm really glad I caught you today!

AB: Talking about Dolores, she is the kind of people that seems tough but is really sweet inside. She just needed someone to grab her hand to get her together. I think she was a really nice character to do because it's about protecting yourself and trying to let it go. And it's something that we need to do nowadays because sometimes we're so, like, trying to protect ourselves from everything because the world is so hard with us. Sometimes we need to let it go and open the door for the destiny, or for a love.

EC: What was it like working with Diego Luna?

AB: Amazing! He's a really nice person. A really amazing actor and really giving and really sweet. I had a great time. I learned a lot from him. He's been an actor since he was a baby!

EC: What do you want to do next?

AB: I want to do theater! I haven't got a chance to do theater professionally. Just having classes and everything. So I want to do a bit of theater. I want to study, maybe coming to New York, or San Francisco. Just opening doors. And now I want to keep doing cinema, that is my passion, that is what I love. But theater! To grow up and keep going.

EC: Well, I have to tell you, I think you're heading for a brilliant career. I'm a gay guy myself but I could almost go straight for you!

AB: [Laughing] Thank you very much! That's BEAUTIFUL! I LOVE IT! [She gives me a big kiss.] I'm going to say like, "Now, you're going to be straight. I'm going to meet you in San Francisco and say, okay! Let's go for a beer!!"

Photos courtesy of Jeff Vespa, Wireimage.com. Cross-published at Twitch.

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

2006 SFIFF—The Evening Class Interview With Andrucha Waddington


Casa de Areia / The House of Sand is Andrucha Waddington's first feature-length fiction film since his 2000 award-winning Eu Tu Elles / Me You Them (Official Selection Cannes Film Festival / Un Certain Regard and Toronto International Film Festival; and Winner, Best Film, Karlovy Vary Film Festival). It features Fernanda Montenegro (Academy Award nominee for Central Station) and her real-life daughter Fernanda Torres (Best Actress for Parle-moi d'amour at Cannes), two of the most renowned actresses of Brazil, brought together for the first time in a film's leading roles. I met up with Andrucha Waddington early Monday morning at the Hotel Adagio for coffee and conversation. I'm keeping Andrucha's broken English intact because I found it charming and uniquely communicative.

* * *

Michael Guillén: First of all, I wanted to congratulate you on winning the Alfred P. Sloan award at this year's Sundance Film Festival.

Andrucha Waddington: Thank you very much.

Guillén: Sundance has been very good to you! They initially gave you $10,000 for the development of the film, did they not?

Waddington: They gave more! They gave $150,000. It was $10,000 for development and $140,000 for a pre-buy NHK deal, that when we had the film ready, NHK bought the film for t.v. in Japan. So then it was a guaranteed pre-buy so you could count on that money for production.

Guillén: And then at this year's Sundance you won the $20,000 Sloan award?

Waddington: Yes, it was amazing! I couldn't believe that! And actually, for me it was very touching because the jury was made by scientists, and actually Antonio Demasio which is an amazing neurologist and he's a guy who studied about human behavior and I read many of his books and when I saw him in the jury, . . . I was really moved and I said, "I can't believe, Antonio, that you are on the jury; it was my dream to meet you!" And then I went to L.A. after Sundance and I went out with him and we became friends. So besides the honor to get the award, the money, I got a friend!

Guillén: That's absolutely the best perk! The Sloan Award is presented to an outstanding feature film focusing on science or technology as a theme, or depicting a scientist, engineer or mathematician as a major character. The expedition that features in House of Sand was a true historical scientific expedition, was it not?

Waddington: Exactly. This expedition was sent to Brazil by Albert Einstein to prove the general theory of relativity. He sent two expeditions: one to Africa and one to Brazil. The Brazilian one was leaded by Cromley, which was an Irish—if I'm not wrong—an Irish scientist and they made this picture of the solar eclipses, the total solar eclipses, that took place in May, 1919. Actually, the sky was cloudy in Africa so the theory was proved in Brazil by this picture. This picture was taken 200 miles from where it was shot so we did this small political … no …

Guillén: Artistic license?


Waddington: Artistic license! And we brought this expedition to the camp of dunes and we actually saw many pictures in the research about how was this expedition, how they had equipments, because they had photographed documents about their day by day during this expedition. So we tried to recreate as it was and actually there is something that was a challenge for us because I didn't want to put dates in the screen, just in the beginning to set the audience really quick where we are, but, from this moment on I didn't want to have like, okay, 1919, 1942 written in the script, so we had to find a way to have a locator on time. We noticed that being out of society, being away of everywhere, the only connection would be from the sky.

So we used the 1910, the Haley's comet, with the appearance was really really astonishing and it's very subtle in the film, but, it's there. [The night when Aurea first arrives to her new "home", she scans the sky and Haley's comet can be seen off towards the horizon.] The solar eclipses of 1919. The war planes that used to fly during WWII used to fly from U.S. escaping from the German U-boats that was patrolling the North Atlantic. They used to fly through the north shore of Brazil and we are almost in the shore. So when I went to make a research in that place I was talking to some people that was alive in that time and living and there was no radio, no communication, no nothing, and suddenly started to fly like hundreds of planes went over their heads every day. And they said that they were really scared in the beginning and then they started to get used. But in the beginning everybody used to run and didn't know what's going on, so we took that as a locator as well. And, finally, the man on the moon in 1969. So we choose like four events that would locate in time and would connect them to the rest of the world by the sky.

Guillén: The element of time is fascinating in House of Sand. Not only did you have this direct reference to Einstein trying to prove his theory of relativity but you actually folded the theory into the film. It's a very challenging film to an audience. You're asking the audience to accept certain conventions. And one of them was this leapfrogging of the actresses over the generations. When it first happened, it was a very interesting feeling in my body because I didn't know what was going on mentally, but, I knew what was going on visually. House of Sand has a unique visual signature—quintessentially cinematic in that way—and exquisitely rendered by your stunningly beautiful desert location. Why did you choose the Lençóis Maranhenses National Park? Was it from the photograph?

Waddington: Yes, from the photograph. First I want to go back to what you said about the intelligence of the audience and to don't underestimate the audience. Yesterday in the Q&A here a guy asked me, listen, I like a lot the film, but I didn't understand why you choose this kind of time lapse. I took a couple of seconds or minutes to understand and I said to him, I did it because I don't like to be underestimated when I am an audience, so I believe that the audience likes to think and realize things and understand—not in the cut—but take a couple of seconds to understand and to read it and to think about. And I think this is something that we don't see too much in the films in these days. It's something I think the cinema was counting more the intelligence of the audience in the old times, in the old films, and here as we were exploring like—actually, it's an original story that it's almost a tale, but we tried to make it as real as it could be, but this idea to believe that the audience is capable to read, to understand, without being explained and to take their conclusions is something that I appreciate a lot when I am watching a movie. When I answered that, the whole audience was like [hurrah!], they liked it! Because it's a kind of a gift to the audience. To don't underestimate them.


Back to the photograph, how this film started, it's really odd how it started: Luiz Carlos Barreto, he's a great producer in Brazil, he was coming from a trip from Ceará, which is another environment with dunes in the North of Brazil. They have a couple of dunes around. He was in a bar and on the wall of bar was a picture of a house half-covered by sand. He asked it to the owner of the bar who was living in that house? And the guy said there was a woman who was fighting against the sand for almost her whole life and when she died the sand took over her house. He arrived in Rio and there was a party, I was coming in, he was going out, we met at the door. He grabbed my arm and said, "Andrucha, I was going to call you, because I arrived from Ceará today, I saw this picture and I was thinking on you in the last 24 hours and you need to make this film." And I didn't took too serious, I went home, and I had seen Woman in the Dunes from Hiroshi Teshihagara two weeks before and I went home and I had a dream and I mixed in the dream the image that Luiz Carlos Barreto described in color with the images from the Teshihagara's movie. So I woke up in the morning, totally in shock, then I called him, I said, "Barreto, you told me this story, I didn't took it too serious, but, it's in me and let's make the movie." So I went to his house, we spent like six-seven hours talking about how the movie could be. After this first session we called Elena Soárez, the screenwriter, to develop the original story with us, Fernanda Torres and Fernanda Montenegro, and said, "We have this idea. We will write this script for you. As soon as we have this script we will send it to you." So this script was totally written for them. Actually, when I saw Teshihagara's movie and mixed everything, the other film that made me be really strong about this story could be a great story, was The Exterminating Angel from Luis Buñuel, which talks a little bit with this idea, being in this place that you cannot leave you cannot leave you cannot leave you cannot leave. Those are films that you don't see very often in the contemporary cinema.

I was talking to Walter Salles, which is one of the co-producers, and he said to me, listen, you are really going against the current because here in Brazil now everybody is making films that's very contemporary about political statements or the day by day life, but, you are making a film that is totally against the actual current of the Brazilian cinema. I said, this is a compliment! So let's do it and I was really happy because, in the beginning, was a film difficult to … I think all the time there was a doubt how successful the film would be. The film in Brazil was very successful with critics. It was released as an art house movie with 35 prints. And it did really well for the amount of prints we released. So in the end of the day I was really happy. Now we have distribution here in the U.S., we have distribution in France, in England, in many countries of Europe, in Asia. So it's something that you never know when you make a film if it will achieve the audience and if you will be able to distribute a film and to bring them to the audience. So now I am really happy because I am here, like the film is being played in a very nice way, and the best thing is the fact that the film is against the current makes the film different.

Guillén: It is different!! Someone was asking me yesterday—because they're going to see it today; I'm also going to see it again today—they asked, "Is it a costume drama?" I said, No. I mean, It has that. For me it was almost like a very subtle piece of science fiction.

Waddington: I love it!! I love what you said. My wife, Fernanda Torres, she always say it's 2001 with no money, with no space, 2001 in terms of it's a science fiction. And she describes the film as a science fiction every time we talk about the movie. [Chuckling.]

Guillén: That's how I saw it. I saw the time lapse scene as very similar to Tarkovsky, to Solaris.

Waddington: Yes!! Which is a film that I loved. Tarkovsky is a master!

Guillén: Another movie that's at the festival this year is one out of Mexico, Ricardo Benet's News From Afar. It has a similar introduction in the sense that it has a woman who is taken to a place she does not want to go with a husband who forces her to go there and is trying to eke out a living in a place where it's impossible. Both husbands die, in News From Afar and in The House of Sand, and the women are left to discover their destinies. Were you trying to talk about patriarchy at all in Aurea's husband Vasco?

Waddington: The idea it's very simple. We talked a little bit about the foundation of Brazil. Brazil was founded—Brazil as it is these days—was founded by immigrants so we have a tripod in this film, which is, like, the runaway slaves, which was very important for the population of Brazil and there is a huge black community in Brazil that came from all the ships that brought the slaves and when the slavery was abolished they had to set their lives in a new way and, like, there was no help to establish them. They were, like, thrown to the sharks, you see? Okay, slavery is abolished, so now you have to find a way to survive. So that's why there was like the quilombos that were made by runaway slaves. They were hidden far away and a couple of quilombos lost a lot of time to understand that the slavery was abolished. So this was one element.

The other element is Vasco, which is the Portuguese, first generation, that arrives in Brazil and wants to settle a new life, to settle and starts to create a new life, and he bought that land but he was cheated, there was only sand over there. And he actually paid the debts of his wife and, by paying the debts, he had her as his wife and she had the compromise to come with him. So the women at that time used to be a kind of slaves as well. She had no way out. She could not complain. She had a deal with him. So when he dies and this is like the male kind of imposition on the women of that time, so there was like this dual slavery—slavery of the woman, slavery of the slaves—and they were two released, these two segments, the women and the runaway slaves they were, they found each other in the middle of nowhere and I think the union of Aurea and Massu tells a little bit about the next step in the Brazilian society. This was something that I didn't planned, but this is something that I can read as—because for a woman at the time to accept to be with a black man was impossible. That's why I think Aurea, it took for her ten years to understand that she was in love with Massu.

Guillén: But it shocked her daughter Maria.


Waddington: Maria was shocked by—in my opinion—by two things. First, to see her mother having sex, it could be with anyone, when you are nine years old you see that. But I think the main reason she was shocked was because her mother was promising her that she would leave that place since she was born and when she saw Aurea having sex with Massu, she understood that she would not leave any more. And, before that scene, she says to Maria, "Let's go home." And then she cut the hair. It's the first time she says "home." She says, "Let's go home, Maria." When she sees that the expedition has gone and then she walks back to the hut and she says, "Let's go home, daughter." They arrive in the hut, it's night, Aurea cut the hair, and it's like a cut to the previous life and she starts a new life from that moment on.

Guillén: People are always looking for ideal relationships. I was taught, however, that you don't need to look for relationships because you are already in relationships; you just need to recognize the ones you're in. What I saw in this movie was a landscape that was in relationship to these women. They were in relationship to the landscape. They just didn't understand that relationship.

Waddington: The mother understands first.

Guillén: First. But it took her about ten years to understand that and eventually her daughter comes to the same understanding. What were you trying to effect with that landscape? How were you hoping it would define the characters of these women or, more appropriately, isn't the landscape itself a major character?

Waddington: It's a character that brings isolation, that brings them out of the society and allows them to create a new way of living, her statement, their statements, they create a tiny little small society with their rules, with their new way of facing the world.

Guillén: But with memories too! The thing I thought was so beautiful….

Waddington: The music?!

Guillén: Well, yes, the music. But not just the music. The film is very subtle and multilayered, interconnected. True, it was beautiful that when Aurea heard the music in the expedition camp, it reawakened memories, reawakened her sexuality, reminded her of someone else she had been, could be. This was equivalent to a natural fact about the desert. Those sand dunes in Lençóis Maranhenses become lagoons when the rains come and the lagoons, amazingly, fill up with fish! Where do the fish come from? They come from the sand.

Waddington: That's right!

Guillén: Because there are eggs dormant in the sand just waiting for rain. It's like there's something there already. And in the final scene, where Maria returns to her mother with the gift of music, she plays Chopin's Prelude Opus 28, #15, "The Raindrop." I thought that was a brilliant touch! Music for Aurea was like rain for the desert; it brought so much back to life! How did the choice of the Chopin piece come about? You obviously have a very keen sense of music, I know you've worked with many Brazilian musicians . . . .

Waddington: Yes, but, I will tell you there, I will be frank here. Because there was no music in the film and then there is this gift that comes in the end. I selected like tons of cds to try to experiment. The first music we put in the film was that raindrop prelude. And when we saw it, myself and the editor, we looked at each other and said, "It will be very hard to replace. We will not find anything better." And we kept trying for months. Every day at the end of the sessions of editing we spent one hour listening, trying to find the right music to be there. In the end of the month we said, okay, it's done. And so then it was like a gift that came from casuality but I think it matched. It's a piece of a puzzle that came first that didn't allow any other piece to replace it.

Guillén: There's an organic feel to the movie that way. It does feel like it was created in process. That comes across in the film. As I was reading the press notes, I came to the understanding that the actors contributed to the film.


Waddington: A lot! A lot. Actually, in all my films, I really like, I really appreciate like I think—to have a . . . I don't believe that the director can have a vision by himself only. I think to build a film and to build up a clime of working and to put everybody in the same mood and to understand the film you are making, I think these table reading discussions are the most precious things that you can have. So always like four months before I start shooting, I start to make these sessions with the actors, and without having any problem to be confronted, to be argued, so I really open the script, okay, let's read, everybody have the right to say anything so we should, like, criticize and understand which is the doubts and everything, so session by session this makes the script more powerful because you work in the lines, you argue about the scene that is there, but why this scene is here? And when you let the actors speak—because they will live their roles—they start to really think from the inside so when you start shooting everybody knows who they are. Like the actors they are in the roles already. We understand, I think I as a director, I absorb a lot from these sessions. I think cinema is a group work. Of course, the director is the one who chooses, okay, this I like, this I don't like, this I want, this I don't want, but a film is made by many eyes. So to not use these eyes I think it's a mistake because you are losing something that could improve a lot the movie. So I really believe that in the process if you have like these readings with the actors, and with the head of the departments involved, we create something that you became like a real group that will make something all together. You create a soul that belongs to this group that is working.

Guillén: Group soul. Kind of an ensemble vision?

Waddington: Yeah, exactly.

Guillén: When you have a film like this one and your previous one which did so well in the festival circuit, as you're traveling around from festival to festival are the audiences different? Do you find a commonality among the audiences?

Waddington: Actually, the film is different! The other film was a dramatic comedy, which in a sense relates a little bit to this one, but really tiny line because I think it's a different subject. There it's a woman … the only thing that is really connected to this film is that, in isolation, you create your rules and your statements. This is something that you have in both films, but, it's two totally different films and, saying that, the reception The House of Sand is having around the world it's almost the same of Me You Them. It's so warm as Me You Them was, even not being a comedy. In like the last five minutes of the film there is three spots where the audience is totally taken and laugh and when I made the editing I never thought that people would laugh over there. And it was because everyone was relieved. It's a kind of relief that the audience feel because they understand that the circle will close. Because I think the film has something that … the film drives the audience to somewhere that you don't know where you're going to get. So the conclusion comes really in the end. And I think this makes the audience really relieved.

Guillén: It's a relief because it's an acceptance. You see the characters accept. And accept not in a bad way….

Waddington: It's a reconciliation at the same time.


Guillén: It's a reconciliation, yes. I can live this life. I can stay with this man. I can stay in this place. And it is my life. It's a good feeling that you get from that. They're not prisoners, which I really liked.

Waddington: Yeah.

Guillén: In terms of music, the guy that you had playing Massu when he's older, Luiz Melodia, is an actual musician?

Waddington: Yes. Seu Jorge as well.

Guillén: Oh? I know you've done a documentary on several Brazilian musicians, who I love. I adore Gilberto Gil.

Waddington: I've done a documentary on Gilberto Gil. I've produced a documentary on Caetano Veloso. I'm doing a documentary now about Maria Bethania. I like to do documentaries and I don't know what I started to make these documentaries about this artists and actually music, it's something that's very interesting, and I love very much Brazilian music, so it was something that appear in my life, and it happened, it was not too planned. It was something that I just grab it and then I let it go.

Guillén: So what's coming up next? You're doing this documentary….

Waddington: Yes, I'm doing this documentary that I'm finishing right now. I have one day of shooting when I arrive in Brazil on the 10th of May, then I finish it. It will be released over there by September. And I'm starting to prepare a film called Conquistador, which is a story of the conquest of Mexico. It's the story of Hernan Cortes. This is a Hollywood gang production, which is based in L.A., and it will be an American, Mexican and Spanish co-production.

Guillén: Excellent!

Waddington: It will be a Spanish language movie.

Guillén: Well, thank you so much for your time. I'm looking forward to seeing the film again today.

Waddington: Thank you very much. I will be there waiting for you!

Cross-published on Twitch. Photographs courtesy of Outnow.

12/23/06 UPDATE: Kendall's Quest has an evocative response to House of Sand. Despite watching the film with friends who were less than enthusiastic, Kendall appreciated the film on its own merits and offered a great and pertinent paraphrase by Oscar Wilde that "women turn into their mothers: that’s their tragedy."

Kendall's final paragraph is lovely: "Would I be as moved by the film as I am, if I had not had my own adventures in the rust-red dunes of Namibia? Blinded, dazzled, and nearly overcome by heat stroke among those snaking mountains of sand, I doubted I would ever see anything that dramatic again in my life. I haven’t, till I saw this film. But the Khoisan people who live in the dunes of Namibia have the most difficult lives imaginable, foraging for desert melons and sucking precious moisture from them, pumping hours for drips of brackish water from nearly-dry bore holes, and erecting tin or plank shacks to screen out the sand, the wind, and the killing sun. Every man and woman born in that landscape ultimately makes some kind of life. That is the miracle–as Faulkner said, not that we survive but that we prevail. House of Sand raises all the attendant questions about the ways we prevail; the film pays its respects to all the people, especially the women, who prevail in the most inhospitable places of the earth. I will play it again and again in my mind’s eye."

Monday, April 24, 2006

Imagining the Real—Paul Rusesabagina: An Ordinary Man, A Clean Well-Lighted Place For Books Reading

Last Friday, April 21, 2006, Paul Rusesabagina was in San Francisco for the day, delivering a luncheon lecture at the Marines Memorial Theater for the World Affairs Council and then later that evening promoting his recently-published book, An Ordinary Man, to a capacity crowd at A Clean Well-Lighted Place For Books. I frequently attend readings at this bookstore but have never seen such a crowd! People were stacked on top of each other and lingering in crowds outside the doors. Anticipating same, I had arrived an hour and a half early and had a front row seat. Prefaced by an embarrassingly hagiographic introduction, Rusesabagina humbly took stage. Here is my transcription of his talk:

* * *

After such a speech, many times I am myself speechless. But tonight of course I cannot tell you all it is about. An Ordinary Man will explain everything in details and maybe in a better way than what I can do tonight. But I would like to share with you a few questions that many people many times do ask me.

Many times people do look at me and tell me, ask me that, "Paul, have you ever been scared in your life?" Yes. And very much. That was on April the 9th, 1994, when after the government that has been beheaded on April the 6th, a new government was put up and they sent me some soldiers to come and evacuate me from my house and take me to the hotel because they had taken over the hotel where I was the general manager and all the hotel keys for the many rooms which were not occupied the previous night when I left on the 6th I had kept them in my office. …So when they took over the hotel they had no other alternative than sending soldiers to come pick me up and bring me to the hotel.

Everything went very well until the time when we took off from my house and a mile away—not on the hotel compound as you have seen on the screen in Hotel Rwanda—just a mile away I saw those guys 20 soldiers in two jeeps, pulling to the side of the road, and all of them they had been very kind with me all over, and that time I saw everyone jumping out of the jeeps and everyone pointing his gun on my head. I knew that those guys were not joking because all along the street there were so many dead bodies. Some of them, their heads cut off. Others, bellies opened, mutilated, and yet all of those people were very well known to us. We had been staying in that neighborhood for seven years. We knew each and every one and each and every one knew us.

The very same captain who was the leader of that team just came to me and told me, "Listen you, traitor, we are not killing you today but have this gun and kill all of your cockroaches in these cars."

I looked at him and just like a few minutes ago I stayed speechless for five minutes. After five minutes of looking at him, watching him, I told him that, "Listen my friend, myself I do not know how to use guns, but, even if I knew, I do not see any reason why I could kill this old man." There was an old man, Michel, who was my neighbor. From day one of the genocide I already had 26 neighbors who came to stay in my house and when I was evacuated that day I was with them. So I pointed out that old man and told him that, "Listen my friend, I don't see any good reason I can kill this old man. Are you sure that this old man is the right person we are fighting today?" There was another young lady, also a neighbor, holding her baby, her second daughter who was three months old. I pointed out that baby again and told that young captain that, "Listen my friend, I do not think that the enemy we are fighting today is this baby who does not know anything about what is going on."

Sometimes you have to trick people accordingly, call their ego, catch that sensitive point of life. I told them that, "Listen you guys, I do understand you. You guys are hungry, thirsty, tired, stressed by this war, but such problems, we can solve them otherwise, we can find other solutions." Then we started finding other solutions and after two long hours they drove us up to that diplomat hotel and I went to my office, I went to the safe, just took some money, and paid what I promised. That day I was scared and very much.

Many times people look at me and tell me that, "Listen, you have made so many decisions. What toughest decision have you ever made in your life?" On May 2, 1994, in the afternoon the United Nation executives who had remained behind because all the UN soldiers had been evacuated and they all left town with the 2060 soldiers during the genocide. They pulled out and took more than 2000 soldiers, left us with 200. So a few executives, who were working with those soldiers, the rebels army and the regular army, the Rwandan army, had been sitting together, trying to find a way to exchange refugees, the Milles Colline refugees, with the refugees who were in the National City Stadium. The National City Stadium being controlled by the rebels and the Milles Colline by the army.

That day, that May 2, lists came out in the afternoon and all my family members' names came almost first on the list. Then that day—when my names, my family members, all of them came on that list, including myself—most of the Milles Colline refugees came to me and told me that, "Listen, please, tell us, are you really going to leave this place tomorrow?" I said, "No." "If you are going to leave this place, tell us so that we can go to the roof of the hotel and jump." Our problem was no more to die, but how to die. Were we going to afford to be tortured? Killers were coming and cutting a hand, going and coming after many hours, cutting the other one. Cutting again after some other hours, cutting a leg, torturing their victims. So they told me, "If you are leaving, there is no way we can afford to be tortured like that. Please tell us so that we can go to the roof of the hotel and jump." I told them that, "Listen, my friends, I am not leaving." No one could believe me. No one.

That night I went to sleep at a very late hour but I was a very disturbed person because I had made a decision I won't wish to make any more in my life. I had decided to send [away] my wife, my children. Where? With what hope to survive? None. Remain behind. Doing what? Nothing. Without any hopes to see them anymore. I went to sleep at 1:00 a.m. the following morning. When I went to sleep at 1:00 it was due to . . . phoning the international community, sending faxes all over the world, disturbing each and every one because in any case I had nothing to lose.

So when I arrived in the room my wife and my children were playing, not sleeping at all, but they noticed that I had changed. That change they saw it in my face. Each and every one was just looking at me but they couldn't understand. I said, "It's okay, I'm tired." Then I tried to find courage to tell my wife and children that I am not being evacuated with them. But I couldn't. Until a time when I decided to pretend that my children were not there and I told my wife that, "Listen, tomorrow you are going to be evacuated." When I said that word that you are going to be evacuated, each and every one looked at me. And in a drained voice almost they told me that, "Listen, you are saying us. How about you? Aren't you coming with us?" I said, "No. Today my advisor, my own conscience, has told me not to leave these people because if I happen to leave today and these people are killed, I will never be a free man. I would be a prisoner of my own conscience. Please, do accept. Leave and go to a separate place without any hope of meeting anymore."

The following day in the afternoon around five, I escorted my wife and my children. I just helped them to climb into the UN trucks. I saw them off. That experience itself was heartbreaking. I have never never suffered that much in my life. To see them off. I watched them leaving, the first truck, the second one, the third, the fourth. As the last truck was just crossing the hotel main gate the radio, the media, the radio was reading the names of all the people fleeing and being evacuated from the Milles Colline hotel, urging militia men to set up roadblocks, stop all those Milles Colline cockroaches and kill them. Because, the radio was saying, if you don't kill them, if you don't forgive them, they will never forgive you.

Well, those people couldn't make it for more than two miles. They were stopped, beaten to death, until a time when they started killing them and the first bullet from a militia man killed a soldier. Then soldiers and the militia men started fighting each other. Soldiers saying that, "Militia men are killing us!" That was the moment when the few UN soldiers who were driving them, who had surrendered actually and were hands up for many hours, they brought down their hands, started pulling the victims from the tarmack, throwing them in the backs of the trucks.

When they came back, my wife was not as you have seen on the screen, shouting, "Give me back my wedding ring!" She was lying flat in the back of a truck, unable even to talk and even to turn herself. I took her up to the room where she stayed for many weeks even unable to move.

Many are the times when people have asked me, "Paul, have you ever been sad in your life?" Yes. On July the 12th, 1994, just almost a week after the 100 days, the three months of the genocide, my wife, a friend, and myself decided to drive south and go to where we belonged to, our homeland. That was our first real trip outside Kigali, the capital, to see how the country looked like. All along the way, the whole country was nearing death. All along the way, there was no human being alive. All along the way, we could see only all over a lot of flies. There was no animal alive. We could hear dogs barking from the background, very far. We drove up to my homeland. When we arrived I was lucky enough—even now I call it to be lucky—because my older brother was there. I went to his house. I started asking him, "Where are our neighbors? Where is so and so?" He started telling me that, "Listen, so and so have been killed by militia men. Others have been killed by the army. Others are being killed by the rebels who had already taken over the country. Others are being burned in those houses you see burning there."

At that time my eldest sister, my younger brother, had just been killed by the rebels. My brother at a given time looked at me and told me that, "Paul, please do me a favor. Leave this place. Because if you don't, even these walls you can see have eyes and ears, they do listen to what you are saying, they are looking at you. Please, leave this place." I recall his message.

We drove down south to see my mother-in-law. When we arrived, before we arrived even, her two houses had just been destroyed. She had been killed with her daughter-in-law, six grandchildren, all of them thrown in a pit where we used to mature bananas in order to make banana juices and banana beer. That day we sat down in the wind and like young babies, we cried. We cried and we drove after a few hours we drove back to Kigali where we stayed until a time when I was almost assassinated, almost killed in September, 1996, and fled the country, went to Belgium, where I live until today. That day I was very sad.

Have we learned a lesson? To you: have we learned a lesson? All of that was taking place in Rwanda. Last year I went to Darfur myself to see what was going on in Darfur. Exactly what I was seeing in Rwanda between 1990 and 1994 is what is going on in the Sudan. Rwanda, by 1994, the day before the genocide, we had more than a million people surrounding Kigali who had fled the rebels because the rebels were inviting men for meetings, killing them; inviting their sons to join their army, killing them. So the people had been fleeing the zones they occupied. And by 1994, early before the genocide, we had more than a million surrounding Kigali, without shelter, without food, without water, without education for the future generations, for four years those people had been frustrated just like that, and when the genocide broke out they were the first ones to take machetes, go down to the streets and chop each and every one into pieces.

Today in Darfur we have more than two million people in that same situation. In Darfur there are government helicopters just destroying villages completely and a few individuals who have been just to flee the burning villages are being killed by the Jajaweed militia men on horses, again armed by a government, just like the Rwandan militia, who were just hunting us, killing many people by 1993. And the whole world is standing by, watching, and doesn't do anything. When their children saw us when we there, they just gathered and demonstrated. When they were demonstrating, they had a blackboard on which they had written, "Welcome to our guests but we need education." Is that not a shame to mankind? Have we learned a lesson?

I'll end up, wind up my speech tonight and An Ordinary Man will take over, will start far ahead of me and go farther than I. . . . Thank you.

Saturday, April 22, 2006

2006 SFIFF—"Who Killed the Electric Car?": The Evening Class Interview

The opening night gala at the Regency with its Perhaps Love circus atmosphere was truly fun! I couldn't resist my Skyy vodka martinis and you know what they say: one is too many and two is not enough! So I arrived at my interview at the W the following morning a little worse for wear but eager nonetheless to have a chat with Chris Paine, the director of Who Killed the Electric Car?, interviewee Chelsea Sexton, gas conservation expert Wally Rippel and executive producer Dean Devlin. Chelsea was overdue, having missed her flight from L.A., but was expected during my interview timeslot so we elected to start without her.
* * *
Evening Class: I wanted to preface this interview with a necessary caveat: I'm 52 years old, and I've never had a car. I've never had a driver's license. I'm not a motorist. But I was so enthused by Who Killed the Electric Car? that—if I were a motorist—I would have wanted the EV-1! Please pardon me if I sound ignorant about cars because I know very little about them but you really don't need to be a motorist to appreciate this documentary. I've been interviewing various documentary filmmakers lately and what seems to be a common theme through the work is the systematic erasure of history by various powers-that-be. The erasure of the history of General Motors' EV-1 comes across excellently in Who Killed the Electric Car?

So my first question is: An audience sees this movie, what are we supposed to do with it? What are we supposed to do with this information that you've given us? The culpability has been narrowed down and spread out among the usual suspects but what does a person do with this information?


Chris: That's a good question! Well, I would hope that people finish this film thinking, "My god, there are alternatives to my gasoline car I've been driving. There are alternatives in the way I think about what transportation is. About what kind of car I want to demand that be available to me. What do I want to do with the car that I currently own?" You don't use a car, which is fantastic, because you're obviously not going to be using …

Wally: You don't create emissions! [Laughter.]

Chris: That's terrific! I even hear about people talking on the radio this morning about $4 a gallon for gasoline and the solution is, "Well, why don't I just drive less?" That's terrific. The auto companies—and you would hope the government would [provide the incentive for] this—should really make it easier for us to use electricity to make cars go because we create that here in the U.S. Our film talks about how effectively that can work if we all put our minds to do it. It did work, in the 90s we had it, and it can come back now. The technology is not gone.

EC: CARB (the California Air Resources Board) initially implemented the Zero Emissions Mandate (ZEV) to ward off California's pollution crisis but then ended up revoking it due to compromises struck with auto industry personnel. Can the ZEV mandate be brought back somehow?

Wally: That's a very interesting question. It is coming back in different ways. We have right now the Prius, for example, and there's a lot of them out there. In many ways that's the same technology as in the EV-1 in some ways. It's updated.

EC: Is this the hybrid?

Wally: Yes, the hybrid made by Toyota. There's a lot of stuff happening. And I think it's being driven in many cases because of high fuel prices. We saw this coming. Remember when the EV-1 was done, fuel prices were much lower than they are now; but, we saw this coming. I think that things are going to happen whether or not government is involved. My concern is this: my concern is not are we going to do the right thing to save the planet, but is America going to be left behind? Are we going to watch as the Japanese do good stuff? As the Chinese move in and start doing stuff? As India does stuff? As Europe does stuff? Are we going to be the odd man out? I'm sensitive to that as an engineer. I want to be in the leadership role. I want to be a participant. I do not want to be an observer. It's like going to a baseball game if you're an athlete and watching the game and seeing people do stuff and feeling, "Hey! I could do better!" You want to be in the game.

EC: My concern—and I think it's a growing concern among people as we're becoming more aware of the current administration and certainly past administrations—is the addiction for oil justifying aggression. The other day I was listening to a news report about the oil resources in Venezuela and how suddenly we have war ships off the coast of Venezuela and just as suddenly we're finding reasons to be angry with them. The transparency of the situation irks me. Who Killed the Electric Car? premiered at Sundance? Is that correct? It was the world premiere?

Chris: It was a first screening, early cut.

EC: I understand it's still not completed? And what I saw was not a finished version of the film? You're working on sound now?

Dean: There's a couple of sound tweaks. But it's basically finished. But, yeah, there's a couple graphic cards when you saw it that are being changed and some sound pieces but by tonight's showing, we'll have the final version.

EC: So I need to see it again?

Dean: You absolutely have to see it again. And again and again. [Laughs.]

EC: As I was reading various print and online press about the film, it appears the audience reaction at Sundance was strong and affirmative. I was talking to your co-producer last night, Richard Titus, and he was saying he was very surprised by the Sundance response. Were you expecting that?

Dean: No!

Chris: No!

Dean: It was stunning. On our first screening there was a standing ovation at the end of the film and Chris and I looked at each other in complete shock. [They laugh.] It was such a fulfilling moment. I've been making films, different kinds of films obviously, for 12 years. Nothing was more fulfilling in my career than that moment. Because not only had we made something that was very entertaining, not only had we moved people but we told a story that we knew that the world didn't know that we wanted to get out. And it was literally one of the highlights of my professional career.

EC: It seems that it has fallen to documentary filmmakers to correct the adage that history belongs to the winners. Certain documentaries, like yours, cause us to re-evaluate what "win" means. At first we trust the decisions of our leaders, they seem to be for the best, but then we take a second look and realize their decisions are wrong and their histories self-serving. A.O. Scott called Who Killed the Electric Car? a "prosecutorial examination" and Grist Magazine's Dan Bree called it a whodunit in the form of a love story....

[Chelsea walks in. After initial introductions and salutations, she settles into the interview.]

EC: Chelsea, I was talking about how Who Killed the Electric Car? has been posed as a whodunit mystery but that it's really a love story. And you walked in just at that moment!

Dean: The love interest!

Chelsea: Hardly….

EC: What are you doing now, Chelsea? How have you continued on with your advocacy of the electric car?

Chelsea: I still do quite a bit of work with Plug In America which was the organization that you saw towards the end of the film. We went through this evolution from saving cars to trying to get more cars built. And so we still continue to do that. We work with policy makers and car companies and the whole point is to get these cars back on the road, to take the lessons that we learned and that are portrayed in the film and kind of keep it from happening again and also figure out how to move in a forward positive direction.

EC: Audiences have definitely been moved by this film. How do you think the American consumer is going to react to this information? Do you think they will rally to the call?

Chelsea: I think they will. And our experience has proven that they want to. They come out of each screening saying, "What do I do? Where do I go? Who do I call? What do I buy?" The whole point is to give them more of those options, it's about creating more choices about different kinds of cars for people to buy. And make them available again.

EC: Why do you think General Motors was so drastic in destroying the EV-1s? That was the emotional part of this documentary. Even though I don't drive a car, I think they're admirable, y'know? I can go to these concourses down in Pebble Beach and look at these beautiful cars of the past; I can admire them. They saved those cars! Right? Why was there such a systematic erasure and destruction of the electric car?

Chris: As we say in the film, I don't think the vested interests wanted to see electric cars running around on the roads to remind people that they're possible and they're now. They just want to take them off the road. So what do you think, Chelsea? How do you answer that?

Chelsea: I think the short answer is that the cars were their own best advertisement. The more they were on the road, the more people wanted them and if that's not the business you want to be in, having them out there and having that advertisement becomes a liability in itself.

Chris: The official reason they claimed was that there were no spare parts and that cars couldn't be kept on the road and that there was a potential long term liability because they didn't manufacture tens of thousands of these cars. But their arguments seem very circular, I mean we could talk for a long time about it. We really came to the conclusion they just didn't want electric cars out there on the roads. What do you think, Wally?

Wally: I think a lot of it deals with what the vision is. Let's suppose you were a typewriter company and it's 1975 or something, and you started a little venture with computers and a little bit of stuff with word processing and, of course, these things are more expensive than typewriters. And you really didn't believe in it but you thought we'll do this anyway, and people liked your product, and you're getting pushed in directions that just don't fit in with your typewriter plans. If you didn't have vision for computers, you probably wouldn't do those things that would move you into the present day world. And this is the big picture that I see. I see that General Motors is doing things that are hurtful, not just to the rest of us but to themselves! Look at their bottom line right now. They're losing a million dollars an hour twenty-four hours a day. Eventually it's going to end up to be some real money. So, it's lack of vision. The thing is also when you tell lies, you sometimes believe your own lies. I'll give you an example of one. In the days when the EV-1 was available, I thought I'd do a little experiment so I called up as an interested party—which I was—and I say, I'd like to lease one of these. Great. Now I have a question for you. These use electricity—I'm pretending to be dumb, of course—these use electricity and electricity is made by power plants and power plants put out emissions. So isn't it possible that the emissions by way of power plants are just as great or maybe even greater than from a gasoline car? There's silence and I said, "Do you have any information that deals with this?" No. I knew the answers! I had studied all that stuff and the answer is it's wonderful!! The benefit of an electric vehicle over a gasoline vehicle—even when you include the power plant emissions—is about 30 times better. It would take about 30 electric cars to create as much emissions as one gasoline car, and I knew that and I had all the numbers. I didn't share it with this person. But this was an interesting thing because here is somebody trying to sell a product, supposedly, and they're not using information that is in their interest. I found out what I wanted to know at that point and that is there's a hidden agenda here. They really didn't want to do this. They were pushed into it. They were trying to make some statement. But what they did in the whole process of trying to get out of this, is they never did get the vision, they didn't see what was happening in the world. And it's like the typewriter company missing what's happening. Computers are coming! We're seeing this happening overseas as I mentioned before and the American companies, I want them to succeed. I'm on the side—you might find this hard to believe—I'm on the side of General Motors! I want them to succeed! I want them to do what's right and what's right will be right for our environment and it'll be right for their bottom line.

Dean: It's interesting talking about General Motors, on 60 Minutes a couple of weeks ago they did a big piece about how General Motors may be near bankruptcy and they blamed 100% of this on their workers! They blamed it on how much they have to pay in the retirement funds and the health benefits and I thought, "How disgusting! Blame the people who built your company and not even mention that you abandoned the technology that you had before anyone else in the entire world, that could have put you on the map, that could have changed the face of your company, just ignore that and blame the workers. So I absolutely agree with what Wally is saying about the vision thing.

EC: The thing I keep getting from your documentary and it's a question I initially asked them, Chelsea, is I've been seeing a lot of documentaries where they point the finger and you see the wrong that's been done but I keep wanting to bring it back to the American people: what are we supposed to do? You named some actual advocacy groups and you think that's the way to go with this? I was interested whether or not the old zero emission standards could be brought back? If your documentary would in any way lobby for a re-evaluation of that decision?

Chelsea: Right. The advocacy is one avenue, it's one thing. It's something we came to after a lot of other things didn't work. The ZEV Mandate is actually going to be revisited this summer. There are some new hearings to try to figure out what to do with it and whether to include newer things that have come into the fray since they sort of watered it down in '03 to include things like hybrids and all kinds of other avenues. So we absolutely not only hope, but expect this film to have an impact on those hearings and on those long term decisions. And the bottom line is the consumers have got to start asking for what they want. The traditional model of the auto industry that we're going to build something and then convince you that you want it; it needs to be reversed. And the car companies have got to start building what people actually want to buy but people also have to ask for it.

EC: I was also struck in your documentary when you were talking about the advertising and you showed those commercials and they were soooooo creepy!

Dean: They were terrifying!

EC: They were terrifying! And I thought, "Why would I want to own that? I'd be afraid to be in the garage with it!" [Laughter.] Another disturbing element of the documentary is that you do place culpability on the consumer—their lack of awareness—and yet at the same time I'm curious whether it's entirely their fault for not being aware? Your documentary serves a purpose by bringing awareness to the forefront but the average consumer at that time was being bombarded with advertisements for "preferable" products that the auto industry wanted to sell. Can the consumer really be blamed?

Wally: This is such a fascinating question for us. We went back and forth because consumers really didn't have a chance to buy this in 99% of the country, you never ever heard about this, so how can we blame them? It's a close call, but, we decided that those consumers that knew about it amongst our friends, friends of ours who are still very close friends, who may even have hybrids, they made the call that said, "You know what? I need to wait and see." They made the call to say, "I'm going to go with what I see advertised on television." And I think sometimes of Ralph Nader who says, yes, we're all consumers, we should be chasing the best deal for our dollar, we should be maybe getting what the Joneses have up the street, but we're also citizens and we can also say, "Advertising is just advertising. What product really corresponds with my values? What do I want for my vision of the future?" And that requires that we step outside of advertising. I don't mean to soapbox here, but, we decided in the end that consumers are part of the solution. So since the electric car was killed, we're all in this together. And we all need to work together to get out of the situation we're in now.

Dean: There's also the … what was going on at the time. It's a very different world today. Chris and I were talking about this just this morning. If these same things were coming up today as opposed to ten years ago we think the results would have been very different. The consequences of not embracing this kind of technology is much more apparent today than it was at the time for the average consumer.

Wally: Hurricane Katrina….

Dean: When you have hurricanes, and the threat of global warning is palpable now when before it was theoretical, the war in the Middle East where people are dying all the time and it's directly related to our addiction to oil and, frankly, just gas prices! If nothing else, if we had gas at $4 a gallon back then I think the consumers would have reacted in a way that they didn't then. They didn't need to as much. And if you watch how the sales of the Toyota Prius have skyrocketed, it says that consumers can make a big difference. So while it was very painful for us to make the decision to include consumers as part of the guilty party, the fact is to see how much they've done to help the hybrid car, shows what they can do in bringing back the electric car.

EC: Another documentary that's screening at the festival this year is out of Argentina—The Dignity of the Nobodies—I don't know if any of you have seen that? It was another one that really impressed me because here you had the collapse of an infrastructure and basically people voted with their feet, they walked away from the ways they had been taught to complain about something. What I liked about your documentary—along with its exposé of the systematic destruction of the EV-1—was its positive tone. That's why I keep repeating the question: what do we do? You're showing us this, you're giving us hope that we can do something, y'know? I love that you interviewed Phyllis Diller!! How did you get Phyllis Diller; I gotta ask this! [Everyone laughs.]

Chris: We were mixing our sound for the movie and we're in a little room in the back, the documentaries get a special closet at the back of a real sound stage, and we heard the laugh—Phyllis Diller's laugh—in the other room. I thought, that can't be the real Phyllis Diller in this building, I'm going to go over there and find out. So there she was and she was doing a voiceover for an animation series. And she said, "Now what are you doing, young man?" I'm 45, but, I'll take that. We're doing a documentary about electric cars. And she says [doing his best Diller]: "Electric cars?! I drove in one as a little girl!" So I think that's when I called Dean up and said, "Do you have any money for us to go out and film Phyllis at her house?" And Dean goes, "What?!!!"

EC: Hilarious! Which also makes me ask you, Dean, my understanding is that you created the first web site for a movie?

Dean: The first official movie website. In other words, this was back in 1994, and for most people the Internet was still a pretty new thing. There had been fan sites that had come up to support movies but no studio had ever embraced the Internet and done an official website for their film. So when we did the film Stargate, I was having a lot of frustrations with the marketing people at the time, because they wouldn't do the things I was hoping they would do. So I said, "Can I have the Internet? They said, "The what? Sure, it's yours!" And so we put a team together and we created the first movie website.

EC: That's really cool. Wally, you addressed an issue I was going to ask about emissions from the power plants. Another complaint I've heard about the electric car is replacing the batteries, that it would be very expensive: is that true?

Wally: Well, of course that bridge has already been crossed. People are driving Priuses. The battery technology that's developed in the Prius, the nickel metal hydride battery is in California being warrantied for 150,000 miles. The Prius is a little bit more expensive to buy than a conventional vehicle, you're talking about a 10-15% cost difference and the fuel of course you're saving. So when you go through all the numbers at a $1 a gallon for gas, you're right, the Prius does cost more. But gas doesn't cost $1 a gallon, it costs $3 a gallon right now and the arrows are all pointing upward. The bottom line is that there's been a lot of progress on one hand. We're going to see two years from now the Priuses being powered by lithium batteries rather than the nickel metal hydride and we have some spy people telling us that the Priuses are going to have—at least some of them—will have the option of being plug-in vehicles so that instead of getting just 50 miles per gallon, you'll be able to get well over 100 miles per gallon by mixing the electricity in with the gasoline.

EC: Well, I'm going to wrap it up because I know someone else is coming in. Thank you so much for your time. It's a wonderful project. I think you're on Oscar track. I'm serious! Thank you very much.

Chris: Thank you for spending time with us!

Wally: And don't buy a car!!

Cross-published on Twitch.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Phillip Lopate—Mikio Naruse and "Wife! Be Like A Rose"

Earlier this year the Pacific Film Archives ran the touring Mikio Naruse retrospective organized by James Quandt of Cinematheque Ontario. I caught two—Flowing and Floating Clouds. I very much enjoyed the drunken geisha dance in Flowing—it made me laugh outloud in delight—but despite my best intentions, during Floating Clouds I felt like an animal caught in a trap willing to gnaw off his foot just to get away!! I didn't return to see any of the further entries in the Naruse restrospective and I felt guilty about it. What kind of film commentarian had I become that I couldn't learn to appreciate Mikio Naruse?!

So when as part of its Readings on Cinema series PFA recently invited Phillip Lopate to speak about his new book American Movie Critics: An Anthology From the Silents Until Now and offered, further, a screening of Mikio Naruse's Wife! Be Like A Rose with Lopate's introductory remarks, I thought, "Okay, we will try again."

After discussing his anthology and entertaining questions on it for a bit, Lopate turned to the screening at hand, offering just a little bit about "Micky" (as he affectionately calls Naruse) and a few things about Wife! Be Like A Rose. "Having gone through two entire series of Naruse films, first in the 80s and then more recently," Lopate commented, "I'm struck by how—this is the worst word you can use about a filmmaker, but I'm going to use it—how literary Naruse is. How his films feel like novels. He himself had wanted to be a novelist, to study literature, but because of family problems, money problems, he had to drop out [of school] and become a prop man in a Japanese studio." Naruse's interest in writing persisted, and in Wife! Be Like A Rose, for instance, one of the characters is a haiku poetess.

Another Naruse film, Anzukko, is also about a writer, a poet, and Lopate discussed the wonderful "collaboration" Naruse had with Fumiko Hayashi, a great Japanese woman novelist and short story writer. Actually, Lopate qualified, they hadn't really collaborated, she had written all these books, and Naruse just adapted one book after the other; Hayashi had already died before the first film was released. But Naruse was always very interested in the woman's point of view as well as literature. Lopate praised Naruse's beautiful adaptation of Yasunari Kawabata's Sound of the Mountain. As the PFA notes for the touring series highlighted: "The novelist Fumiko Hayashi was his favorite source for plots epitomizing his own vision that modern women are offered only illusory freedom. Audie Bock, who championed this relatively unheralded director years ago in her book Japanese Film Directors and in a monograph, writes of the 'condition of trapped awareness' in Naruse's women. It is this awareness that gave actresses like Hideko Takamine, Kinuyo Tanaka, and Setsuko Hara a chance to show their depth."

"One of the things I love about his movies," Lopate offered, "is that they edge away from redemption, they refuse transcendence. In that, there is also something kind of novelistic. Sometimes the endings have something inconclusive about them, not always. Audie Bock has said that there are no happy endings in Naruse but there are some incredibly enlightening defeats."

But, Lopate quickly added, Naruse also had a comic streak, one might say a wise streak. Lopate explained that sometimes people write about Naruse and they use words like "bleak" and "pessimistic", but when he watches Naruse's films, he's "always enlivened" and doesn't experience Naruse "as a downer." Partly because Lopate does think there is this odd sense of humor in Naruse wherein he shows how people want something. Naruse himself said "people move a little and then they hit a wall." They want something, Lopate amplified, Naruse "shows them wanting it, he shows them deluded that they can get it, then he pulls the rug out from under them. There's something kind of comic in their sense of denial but also in their stoicism and in their resilience. In many ways Naruse characters have a great deal of dignity because they don't expect happiness, but they keep plugging along." Wife! Be Like A Rose is probably lighter and more intentionally comic than most of Naruse's films, something of an anomaly. "And you should know that he married a young ingénue after the film," Lopate told us, "and had a miserable marriage. It really fed his art, y'know."

After the film—which I rather enjoyed!—Lopate returned to the podium and quipped, "Did I say that was a light film? Questions? Comments?"

He was asked if he knew if Criterion was going to be putting out any of the Naruse movies on dvd? Lopate responded that he had been urging them to. "I've done a lot of work for Criterion over the last few years. And I know that it's in negotiation. I would love to see a box set of Naruse." He announced that he would be doing the commentary for Sound of the Mountain, but through another company. Criterion is very aware of Naruse, however, and negotiating for the box set.

Lopate added: "This movie, by the way, was made in 1935. Part of the charm of it, for me, is that it's right on the cusp between silent and sound. You have that strange whirring noise of the microphone starting up."

Lopate was asked to say something about Naruse's directorial style, how he gets such sensitive performances from his actors, and to also say something about Naruse's involvement with the set direction?

"As I said in my essay about him," Lopate answered, "he doesn't have a signature visual style that's very easy to pinpoint in the sense that Mizoguchi has the flowing tracking shots, or Ozu has the tatami mat shot [sorry Acquarello, just reporting!] or Kurosawa has this kind of vigorous energy. His films are very often interior but, as you can see, he opens them up, there's usually a sense of the city life in his films. He wants you to feel that people, as he said, will hit a wall quickly so there's always this feeling of the narrowness of the interiors, the narrowness of the alleys. As far as his directing of acting is concerned, I think he really was interested mostly in the psychology of character, it's his dominant interest. Hideko Takamine—who is the great Japanese actress who worked with him so often—said that he didn't give very much instruction at all. She asked him, 'How do I play this role?' and he would say, 'It'll be over before you know it.' " Lopate's audience laughed. "Which reminds me a little bit about that story of Ingrid Bergman talking to Alfred Hitchcock, asking, 'What do I do? How do I find my motivation?' And Hitchcock said, 'Ingrid, it's only a movie.' " More laughter.

Returning to the question at hand, Lopate continued: "Naruse was silent and glum. He wasn't like Lubitsch who imitated the way that every line was to be done. He didn't give direction. He chose actors who he trusted. That's why he had to have a crew of people that he could depend upon, a troupe you might say—like Hideko Takamine . . . and those people—and once he chose you, you kind of floundered around until you found the part. My sense is that by withholding instruction he forced the actors into a sense of their own solitude and into their desperation that was so important to the Naruse vision of life. I think he gave off a force field that was very Narusean and if you came into contact with it, you understood." Lopate suggested that the solitary poet at the end of Wife! Be Like A Rose was, in a way, a stand-in for Naruse.

Lopate further pointed out: "But there's also that beautiful daughter looking at her mother, which is very similar to the ending of Mother, of Okasan. The child trying to understand the parent. Filled with sympathy and knowing that there's always going to be this divide between parent and child."

Lopate concluded: "What I love about this movie is this sense—and in Naruse in general—that people can only do what they can do. They're not superheroes. They try but, y'know, life breaks them in certain ways. They're not evil. They can only do what they're going to do."

One fellow in the audience stated that he had heard Naruse was something of a cad toward women, which was surprising given Naruse's sensitive treatment of them in his films. Lopate was asked if he had any information on that.

"I don't think he was a cad to women but I wasn't under the bed, so I'm not sure," Lopate answered. "There's a story which I put in my essay about him. He would go out to eat in restaurants, usually working class restaurants. Even though he was a director, he didn't make that much money. Most of his social conversation was reserved for the waitresses who brought him the food and there was one waitress who was in love with him and he did not reciprocate her infatuation and she committed suicide. I don't know if that's being a cad. He was just being typically silent and withdrawn. Which will drive some people—not just women—crazy."

Another fellow likened the thumbing the taxi scene in Wife! Be Like A Rose with Capra's It Happened One Night. He wanted to know how a Japanese audience would have understood that reference?

"The Japanese directors of that period of the 30s," Lopate responded, "were very interested in Hollywood movies. All of them were watching Capra and Ford and early sound films. Sound came in later in Japan than it did in most countries. But there definitely is a Capra-esque feeling here. If he didn't see It Happened One Night, he surely saw somebody thumbing a ride. But I think it was It Happened One Night."

"What is and was Naruse's reputation in Japan when he was making the films and now?" one woman wanted to know. Lopate stated: "Wife! Be like A Rose was pretty much the first Japanese film that was released in America that showed in New York. It was a popular film." At first Naruse was making a lot of movies for the same studio that produced Ozu and they said, "We don't need two Ozus here." Even though his films are very different from Ozu, he was considered "the poor man's Ozu."

"One thing he was able to do," Lopate described, "was to bring in a film on time and under budget. So he basically continued to make films even in bad times. Of course, World War II was a terrible period. But, once he hit his greatest period, which was the 1950s, then I think there was much more of an appreciation." During the early 60s when a package of Japanese films toured America, When A Woman Ascends the Stairs was included, so even then he was considered an important Japanese director. "I think now he's still considered one of the big four: Ozu, Mizoguchi, Kurosawa, Naruse. I don't think he was ever hugely popular but he was respected."

Lopate was asked to speak about the influences and inspirations on Naruse's editing process? He offered: "Kurosawa thought that Naruse was the master editor. Kurosawa compared it to a strong river current that's taking everything. He'll do some movements with the camera, he'll do very short shots sometimes during long dialogue scenes. But he keeps you off balance I feel like, y'know? He keeps you questioning, y'know? Instead of resolving things, his editing is often forcing you to think about something. That's also where I feel he's like a novelist who's commenting on something, with the way he edits a scene. Puzzles. You feel this question mark. In this particular film, for instance, it's all about shifting sympathies. Who's going to get the major sympathy? And in the end, of course, everybody is fairly sympathetic. And he can only do that by this kind of destabilizing editing system."

08/21/07 UPDATE: At Rouge, Kiyoaki Okubo conducts a fascinating reception study of Wife! Be Like A Rose when it was shown in New York’s Filmarte Theater under the title of Kimiko. It was the first Japanese sound film to be shown commercially outside of Japan and didn't fare too well.

Saturday, April 15, 2006

2006 SFIFF—The Dignity of the Nobodies

The U.S. premiere of Fernando Solanas' The Dignity of the Nobodies is being presented at 2006 SFIFF in association with the United Nations Association Film Festival and Global Exchange. The second in a projected series of four documentaries dealing with the plight of Argentina, The Dignity of the Nobodies is—as Miguel Pendás pens for the program catalog—"activist cinema at its best: passionate, informative and uncompromising." Pendás concludes: "The film's power and immediacy make it feel like a hopeful forecast of things to come."

Imagine! A documentary that testifies to hope!! The Dignity of the Nobodies has arrived on these bleak shores none too soon.

"It was hard to imagine," Solanas writes regarding the genesis of the documentary, "that the small women farmers, ignorant of banking or political affairs, would be able to organize a vigorous and original resistance movement confronting banks and stopping over a thousand auction sales. The neighborhood or community soup kitchens, community clinics, bakeries and other social initiatives created by the neighbors to give an answer to poverty and hunger. The dozens of silence marches staged by relatives of the victims of police mafias which managed to unmask the murderers and send them to trial. The factories revived by their former workers showing that under self-management and without the hierarchical structures of managers and foremen, they could produce with efficiency and quality."

All these "stories" are passionately recorded in The Dignity of the Nobodies and any American—fearful of where our so-called leaders are taking this country—should become cognizant of these grass root strategies and project their own future involvement into them.

Where a feature film like Obaba creates a narrative fiction out of the documentary process, Solanas inverts the assertion: "The Dignity of the Nobodies is not only testimonial cinema, it is not fiction either. It starts from reality but uses procedures from other genres, and on telling characters' facts and stories it approaches fiction. In The Dignity of the Nobodies I tried to fuse genres, to approach real facts to narrative stories, to use procedures of the documentary together with those of fiction or of essay cinema. Its narrative structure resembles that of an open book with tales, chronicles and stories, looking for the testimonial to blend with the poetic, the essay with the testimonies, and the characters with life. The idea of the genres has been reversed and the limits between fiction and the documentary cinema are difficult to specify."

Whereas I was entertained by the stately whimsy of Obaba, and its play on who is seeing who, it remains a philosophical reverie on structures of memory, an artistic construct I can look at, enjoy, write about, dismiss. In The Dignity of the Nobodies, however, memory and the documentary process forge a progressive alliance, engaging me at a deep level. "The tragedy," Solanas explains, "pushed me to preserve memory against oblivion." These stories are not philosophical musings; they are practical stratagems for survival! Here, voting is accomplished with the feet, with action, and not by passive cooperation with structured party politics. Here, Basta! Becomes a rallying cry. Enough! Enough.

But it is precisely by his bringing the resistance down to personal testimonials that Solanas has achieved universality and solidarity. Each character—Martin, the writer delivery-rider, Toba the teacher, Antonia and Chipi who run the poor soup kitchen, Margarita and Colinche who provide for their children through scavenging and gleaning, Silvia and Carola in the public hospital, Lucy who organized farmer wives against the banks' auctions of their farms, Dario martyred by the police mafia and Claudia his fiance, Gustavo, the young priest turned social reactionary—are introduced via coplas, which have their origin in the 19th century payada. The payador was the chronicler gaucho who traveled through the pampa passing on the news in verse to the music of his guitar.

I was entertained by Obaba; but, I was profoundly moved by The Dignity of the Nobodies. A must-see at this year's festival!

2006 SFIFF—Obaba

As Julio Cortazar is one of my favorite South American writers, Antonio Machado remains my favorite Spanish poet. One of my favorite poems of his reads:

The eye you see is not
An eye because you see it.
It is eye because it sees you.

In gist, this is the lesson any documentarian must learn when they turn their camera onto the world, the selfsame lesson that Lourdes (Bárbara Lennie) has to learn, arriving in the small Basque hill town of Obaba equipped with a videocamera, intending to satisfy a school video assignment by recording the history of this small community. And Lourdes learns her lesson: you can't catch fish without getting wet.

Willis Barnstone, reflecting on the above Machado poem in his book of translations Antonio Machado—Border of a Dream: Selected Poems, writes: "[Machado] tells us that the eye of the other already is, and not because by perceiving it you render it living, but because it is there waiting to come into more apparent being by seeing you. In waking you to its being, it gives you life. And you are companions. Like the world, the eye is on its own. And the world and the eye will go on being, when you are darkness." (2004:xix)

This is the marvelous symbiosis achieved by Montxo Armendáriz in Obaba. Self and other, the documentarian and the documented, create the double helix of identity. It is in equal measures mysterious and revelatory, much like a mask serves to conceal and reveal. The past and the present, childhood and adulthood, walk down the cobbled street hand in hand, counting steps (and time) as they go.

As I mentioned in my write-up of Alica Scherson's Play, the worlds created by magical realism are more alternate than other. If narrative shift can induce a new world, then surely memory can do the same, being perhaps the original narrative shift? As Jonathan Holland writes in his report to Variety from the Toronto Film Festival, Obaba "unlocks the past to study its effect on the present, with results that hauntingly jog things out of familiar perspectives." For it is the story we tell ourselves about our own lives that ultimately creates the fictional construct we call identity, and if the story is continually adjusted, accommodated, all the more to prove that identity is fluid, a continual process more than a static state of being. Lourdes repeatedly prefaces her self-inquiries and her examinations of others with the phrase "quiero decir que" ("what I mean is"), which underscores the thirst for meaning inherent in every story. Exact words become substituted by alternate meanings and we understand ourselves (and others) more by approximation, than definition.

Obaba is structured as a series of flashbacks—three to be exact—which account for the presences and absences of key characters in Obaba. Holland synopsizes them well in his Variety review. Why have some remained in this small provincial town whereas others have traveled away? "You can live anywhere," the film attests, "if you're happy on the inside." Interiority becomes a key piece to the puzzle. Where does insanity come from, Lourdes asks the hostel keeper Ismael (Hector Colome), who promptly responds that it comes from the same place as hate, as reason, from within. Ismael is a subtle character in the film. He is the first Lourdes meets on her way to Obaba, encountered at night on a bending road with a lizard firmly in his grasp. He runs the Lizard Hostel, behind which he raises in a shed what might be considered hostile lizards, reputedly able to crawl in through the human ear to feast on their favorite delicacy—the human brain. Allegedly he has made his best friend Tomas (Txema Blasco) a deaf simpleton by putting one of these lizards in his ear. Or at least that is the accusation of Tomas' sister Begona (Inake Irastorza). Or is it simply that she is bitter over spurned advances from when they were children? In one of the final scenes of Obaba it becomes clear that the wounds of childhood fester into adult consequences. What is inside will find its way out. As Miguel Pendás writes for the festival program: "The people of Obaba are trapped in the past, telling stories from their childhood that involve one another in a complicated web of feelings and relationships."

One other thing he writes seems spot on: "Perhaps we were meant to realize that our technological gadgets are incapable of seeing the essence of reality, and that the only way to really know the world is to surrender to its beauty and mystery." The lens of the video camera by which we enter this accomplished film—and which might be thought of as Machado's eye seeing the subject eye—has (as Machado implies) its inherent limitations. This is poignantly examined when Lourdes reviews her tapes to determine if a lizard has entered her ear. Just when she thinks she is going to discover the answer, the camera fails her.

But for the documentarian it is not only the lens of the camera that has limitations, but the process of editing itself; the eye of the editor. Lourdes' inquiries, predicated on a class assignment and committed to videotape, are brought back into the class room where her instructor advises that now is the time to take the compiled footage and edit the images, to give them whatever meaning she deems appropriate. Reality, he teaches her, is not unique and transparent, but rather multiple and complex. Quoting Balzac, he says that life does not make perfect stories but a novelist can.

Lourdes seems to reach an awareness, however, that what is imperfect in humans is exactly what is essential about them and she begins—not to shape stories—but to allow them to tell themselves. She suggests that what is irresolute about human nature might be that which makes a person happy inside. And once you're happy inside, as we now know, you can live anywhere, even in a quirky provincial little town like Obaba.

Friday, April 14, 2006

2006 SFIFF—Play

As I mentioned in my write-up on En la Cama (In Bed), Jorge Morales' FIPRESCI report from the 2005 Havana Film Festival includes a deconstruction of the so-called Nuevo Cine Chileno, and culls out that what's actually being discussed are three distinct Chilean features making the festival rounds at the same time: Matías Bize (In Bed / En la cama), Alicia Scherson (Play), and Sebastián Campos (The Sacred Family / La sagrada familia).

Acknowledging that Scherson won the Debuts section of the Havana festival (Scherson also won Best New Narrative Filmmaker at Tribeca), and admitting that Play "is probably one of the best crafted of all recent Chilean productions" with cinematography "remarkably executed in a High Definition digital format" and "outstanding" sound and shot composition, Morales then asserts that all this excellence does nothing more than "support a naïf babbling, a sort of urban magic realism in which Scherson seems to be more concerned about making the most superfluous details seem exotic than of telling a story with a minimum support. The calculated idea of accentuating the color palette—with no further sense than embellishing the image—the fact of acutely working the sound but without giving it an expressive value, give away the questionable wish to surprise, of shyly impressing instead of moving, of making rhymes but no poetry."

Naturally, poetry is an extremely personal matter. Some prefer their Robert Frost. Others their Juan Ramon Jimenez. Some prefer their poetry dramatic and compelling. And others look up from the page shyly impressed, their forehead on flight.

When Doug Cummings "discovered" Play earlier this year at the Palm Springs Film Festival, he was "dazzled" by "its formal ingenuity, infectious spirit, and profound humanism." Sensing more poetry than rhymes, Doug evoked: "While the movie exhibits an indulgent playfulness, unlike most contemporary films, its stylistic witticisms increase our emotional connections rather than decrease them. More tantalizing than ridiculing, more Jacques Rivette than Jean-Pierre Jeunet, the film celebrates the way personal curiosity and anonymous compassion can inform and enliven modern, urban lives."

Doug's enthusiastic guidance convinced me to give Play a second chance. I had seen it on screener tape and hadn't been drawn in—as often happens when I'm larger than the screen—but Doug suggested I watch Play projected big at the press screening and, as Susan Sontag has defined, I was "kidnapped."

My enthusiasm was shared by Chris Knipp, who attended the same screening, and who found it "extraordinarily accomplished" and "delightful" as well as "rich" and "delicate". "If Play seems to be about 'nothing,' " Chris opines, "look again. Antonioni's L'Avventura and Fellini's La dolce vita were about 'nothing' too. Scherson has modulated Antonioni's boredom into bemused loneliness and Fellini's wealthy idleness into a twenty-first century urban anomie of easy meetings and easy separations."

Since, along with Cathleen Rountree, Doug and Chris have both skillfully synopsized Play's storyline, I'm free to meditate on what impressed me most about the film: its comment on how class is always greener on the other side, its sound design and its gentle inflection of magical realism. As a great lover of Latin American literature and film, what I have come to appreciate over the years is that the worlds created by magical realism are not other worlds distinct from our own, but alternate worlds that share many qualities with our own, often indistinguishable, until something happens—a moth flies out of a rejected man's mouth, for example, and circles around a young woman observing him from across the street; a young woman who understands his loneliness.

For it is precisely in observation that the alternate worlds of magical realism can best express themselves. These expressions can be made so fantastic and over-the-top as in Like Water For Chocolate, or rendered as storybook illustrations like in the starry skies of Viva Cuba, or rendered as simple and nonsensical as dreams that appear to have no importance in waking life. Dreams play a big part in Play. But that's not to say they add much to the plot. Butter melts in the timelapsed sun. A black chick pecks breadcrumbs in the dreamer's shoes, along with his yellow brethren. A mother dreams her daughter gives birth to a chicken. The dreams of night don't seem to matter as much as the dream of fitting in among others in a new place or the dream of configuring a new identity and letting go of an old one.

Alicia Scherson allows the urbanity of Santiago to contain the crisscrossing dreams that don't make any sense, stitching together alternate perceptions of a shared reality, or rather, layering them. The cinematic texture of Play is one of many polyvalent layers. Its weave is nearly hypnotic. Watching Play a second time (which it definitely warrants), I caught so many connections and transitions lost in my initial, confused anticipation.

I love how Scherson uses sound to indicate alterity. Martial art moves practiced in front of a mirror resound with chopsocky swish. She'll show a boat on the shore and you hear seagulls and waves. She'll show a photograph of a nearly-extinct Amazonian tribe in a National Geographic magazine, and you hear their chanting, their drumming. You are, in effect, in two worlds. One of representation. One of evocation. We perceive things not only by how we see them, but how we hear them. And so she plays with the separate universes that individuals live in, determined simply by the shift of one Ipod to the other. I loved the scene where Cristina (Viviana Herrera) and Manuel (J. Pablo Quezada) kiss for the first time, each listening to their own music.

Curiously enough, when I first watched Play at home on screener tape, I watched it along with Underground Game, a cinematic riff on a Julio Cortazar story. I adore Cortazar, of course, I consider him a master of modern fiction because he repeatedly demonstrates that narrative shifts in and of themselves alter perception of reality and, thereby, create alternate worlds. And both films—Play and Underground Game—involved a somewhat necessary stalking or pursuit of one individual by another. One of the fun thrills of any kind of festival or retrospective is the chance cluster of themes that seem to gather movies together within certain circles of perspective. In Dignity of the Nobodies, as an example of a simple man standing up to the police state, another short story of Cortazar's is mentioned, "The Pursuer", wherein a man—who believes he is being pursued—eventually comes to the understanding that he is the one in pursuit. There's something of that resiliency in Play.

As if knowing that she needs to become a nurse for someone new, Christina finds herself someone lonely to care for. And the final shot of her observing Santiago from the hospital rooftop confirms her eye for detail, especially when it involves her future. Variety's Ronnie Scheib writes: "Final scene finds [Christina] high atop the city whistling in the wind as the camera pans over Santiago to end on her face, a very 21st century, feminine version of Balzac's intrepid Rastignac surveying the Paris he vows to conquer." Scheib further attributes the same eye for detail to director Scherson, stating: "Director Scherson tells her story in jigsaw-puzzle fragments—her camera focuses with equal interest on a section of tie or a character feeding rose petals to a rabbit. The devil, they say, is in the details and Scherson has a sharp eye for the telling minutiae and everyday surrealism of Santiago's streets. Moments and objects carry a charge that has little to do with plot, or perhaps are the plot."

My final agreement with Scheib is that Play "has less to do with romance than with class and how the other half lives" but Play's "all-pervasive class consciousness manages to be both gently empathetic and wickedly ironic."

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Hard Candy

Caught an advance screening of Hard Candy at the Clay Theater this evening with director David Slade and actress Ellen Page present for a post-screening Q&A. As Juan Manuel Freire reported to the Greencine Daily from the Sitges International Film Festival last October, the awards for Best Motion Picture and Best Screenplay went to Hard Candy.

After the South by Southwest festival last month Micah reviewed the film for Dumb Distraction and Cinematical's Jette Kernion took part in a roundtable interview with writer Brian Nelson and director David Slade.

Todd Brown at Twitch reviewed the film from the 2006 Philadelphia Film Festival.

David Hudson gathered up yesterday's reviews for the Greencine Daily: " 'A schlockfest dressed up in sleek designer duds that feigns gruesome violence and flounders with psychological power dynamics, music video vet [David] Slade's directorial debut desperately tries to shock and disturb by exploiting male fears of castration and feminine revenge fantasies, both of which form the crux of his story about the torturous tête-à-tête between 32-old photographer Jeff (Patrick Wilson) and 14-year-old student Hayley (Ellen Page).' Nick Schager on Hard Candy in Slant. More from Rob Nelson in the Voice. Related: Ray Pride on that red hoody; Daniel Robert Epstein talks with Slade for SuicideGirls and, for Film & Video, Bryant Frazer talks with Jean-Clement Soret, one of the first colorists to be credited in the opening titles."

Reminiscent of Misery and uncomfortably compelling, Hard Candy is a drama-thriller hybrid about a 32-year-old man who takes home a 14-year-old girl he's met on the net. The film is dark, edgy, and primarily seductive because of Page's powerhouse performance. I was fascinated by her character even as she creeped me out. Here's my transcription of the post-screening discussion.

* * *

Director Slade was asked to talk about how Hard Candy came about. He underscored that, first and foremost, Hard Candy is a completely independently-financed film. Producer David Higgins had the kernel of an idea based around a newspaper article he'd read about girls in Japan who would arrange to meet men on line for sex via the internet. The men would come lured and the girls would jump out of the closet and beat them up and steal their wallets. With that he sought out and found an amazing voice in Brian Nelson, the writer, who teaches theater for a living and is a screenwriter and a playwright. Rather than just take the article as read and make a straightforward thriller, Nelson elected to write a multitextural piece. This was the early first draft that Slade read, which he loved. "Usually as a director," Slade explained, "you look for a film that's ready to go because you don't want to go through development and all that stuff and this was a film no one was going to make. I could see that nobody was going to make this. But I loved it. My personal tastes—I grew up on the cinema of people like Nicolas Roeg and the like and it just spoke to me and I desperately wanted to make it so I went and I met with David who immediately attached me. Once we had a little package together, we very quickly financed it, under the specific caveat that we were going to make it for a million dollars or less so that we kept control." They didn't want it to be a studio film; they wanted it to be a "proper" independently-financed film, not one made through Warner Independent or any of the major studio independent labels. "It's a very very tough subject matter," Slade concedes, "and a very very tough film to make and we didn't want to be in a position where we would be told, well, you have to skew in this direction for this audience or skew your argument this way or resolve anything." They wanted to—as you do when you make a film for practically no money in Hollywood terms—make the film they wanted to make and Slade is proud of the fact that they got to do just that. Hard Candy was independently financed. "[T]hen we took it to Sundance," he continued, "where we were fortunate enough to get into a bidding war and Lionsgate Films bought it, again under the caveat that they weren't allowed to change a frame, and they haven't and—God bless them—they haven't asked us to either."

"We're very very pleased to be coming out on the 28th. We come out in New York and L.A. first and then here on the 28th. There was development along the way, but only very little. Brian Nelson and I fought hard to keep the original energy of the script exactly as it was."

Slade was asked to talk about getting Ellen Page involved in this project because—for such a young character and her being so smart in the movie—without the right actress it would have been definitely borderline cheesey. Page was dynamite and she actually pulled it off, so how did he come across her?

He said they saw about 300 people before Ellen was brought to his attention. He watched some of her television work and then sent on the script. "I remember you read with a shaved head," he smiled at Ellen. She had just gotten off of a film where she had shaved her head. The film's producers were quite strong and supportive but a little nervous as producers tend to be, and practically crapped their pants when they saw Ellen with a shaved head but Nelson, Higgins and Slade knew Page was the one. "There were some great actresses who came in," Slade admitted, "but Ellen just brought this passion that no one else did. She read it in a way that was honest and natural and it felt exactly how Hayley should be. She didn't play in a way that many actresses did, overplaying the sexual flirtation, she just played with great passion and that was the most important thing because in this film the actors have their lines, the actors have their points of view, these are not the points of view of the filmmakers, these are the characters' lines, we're not advocating Hayley's point of view, we're not advocating Jeff's point of view, we're leaving this to you as an audience to read into."

They managed to get Ellen to come to Los Angeles, they met in Starbucks and exchanged some notes and then she read "and absolutely blew everybody away, and that was that!" One of the most important things for a director is the casting, Slade insists. He quotes Billy Wilder: "The three most important things for directing is the casting, the casting, and the casting." They spent a lot of time, he adds, it was the longest time in the production of the film, waiting for and getting the right cast.

So then Ellen was asked what drew her to the part? And exactly how she decided to play Hayley.

When she first got the script, she was in Toronto, having just gotten back from Europe where she'd shot a film, and for which she'd shaved her head. "I wasn't supposed to look at anything," she explained, "I wasn't going to work for a while, and of course the first script that I got like three days after I got back was Hard Candy and I read it and I was just completely blown away and completely engrossed. I couldn't believe that a character like Hayley had been written for a teenage girl with so much intelligence and passion. It was really refreshing actually to not have the typical portrayal of the teenage girl that our media has currently. So I was really just inspired and all I wanted was to be in it and I'm really grateful that I got to be."

Asked her age, Ellen responded 19, though she was 17 at the time she made the film.

Asked how she prepared for the role outside of reading the script, Ellen said: "To be honest, I really just wanted, y'know, my heart to connect to her heart really, in the sense of her passion and the fact that she saw something that was happening in society that people were ignoring and justifying and it really angered her and she was going to do something about that and she was sick of peoples' passive natures. Yeah, there's a lot of things that piss me off. It's just channeling that and connecting on an emotional level."

Slade interjected that he believed adults have a "romantic misconception" that people at the age of 14 don't behave like Hayley or can't or somehow can't articulate. "I think this is a romantic misconception that we have as adults—I think this is something Ellen brought in ... this tremendous passion, this absolute belief, and it was so refreshing." There are those who still argue that a 14 year old wouldn't do something like this but Slade insists no, she would. "Really she would, she was so driven, her values were black and white because she hadn't lived to the point in which she'd filled in the greys." The film has been criticized for being an older man's interpretation of what a young 14-year-old girl thinks but Slade states: "In terms of vocabulary Brian will tell you, he will say, well, it was this student on this day who gave me the idea for that line and they were 14 and I always like to say that because it's one of these weird misconceptions we have and I think it's a romanticism that we like to have as adults."

Ellen was asked: Being that you're a younger woman and just ending your adolescence, how did you feel doing the movie knowing that this is based on pedophiles? I mean, did you recall any experiences that you may have had on your own or did you sort of have to imagine what it was like to be pursued in such a way?

"All I really need to think about is the fact that this guy would do something like this," Ellen responded, "regardless of my personal experience or Hayley's personal experience, the fact that this exists hurts her, the fact that these people are doing this damages her and angers her to an extent that she can hardly even articulate it and she is gonna frickin do something about it, y'know? And it was just about connecting with that. I've never been exploited while I was just trying to grow some basmati rice but it really annoys me that people are patenting seeds, know what I mean?"

I had to ask the obvious question about the red hood. Was the script purposely playing with the Little Red Riding Hood story which has been interpreted by some to deal with the sexuality of young women?

Both of them protested no. "The hood was red," Ellen explained, "and I like to put my hood up, literally, and now I keep getting all these analytical questions about Little Red Riding Hood." Slade added that they had a very little budget. The stylist spent most of it on Patrick's wardrobe. "Yeah," Ellen complained jokingly, "his pants were like $600!" And all she got were jeans and a red sweathood. But it looked right, Slade explained, and he asked her if she felt comfortable in it and Ellen said, yeah, and that was that. And then later he thought, "Oh shit, people are going to read this as Little Red Riding Hood." Besides, Ellen added, she recalled that in Little Red Riding Hood the wolf eats the girl and that's not exactly what happened here.

I took them at their word but it didn't truly satisfy me. If the symbol was not consciously used, perhaps it snuck in anyways. It's true that the wolf eats the girl and the granny but the woodsman comes along and cuts him open. And then what most folks don't remember is that the woodsman sews stones in the wolf's belly, which makes him sink in a body of water. The wolf drowns from the weight. I couldn't help noticing that Jeff's big dark secret was kept underneath a bunch of stones. But again, if they say they weren't playing with these images, I'll begrudgingly accept they weren't.

Ellen was asked if there was a scene that was especially difficult for her to film or for her to get in touch with? Obviously the scene being referred to is the grisly castration scene intent upon titillating morbid prurience. Slade answered for Ellen: "You know, we had 18 and a half days to shoot the film. We shot it for under a million dollars which meant that kind of schedule. Every day was emotionally draining. Every day was tough. Every day was hard work. We prepared and prepared and prepared. We had rehearsal which really helped. I would say there were some days that were harder than others because some days were more physically demanding because we were doing physically demanding stuff. There were some days that were emotionally demanding. But when you're stuck with an 18-day schedule, every day is tough and the only solace in that is that in 18 days it's going to be over."

Ellen countered that she thought the 18-day shoot was a luxury in a way. "I'm from Canada and we have no money," she stated wryly, adding that pretty much all the movies she's done have been shot in 18 days, so it wasn't really that unusual for her. At the same time she thought it helped the film because it added to the sense of immediacy and the film's manic nature.

Slade offered that they also shot pretty much in sequence except for the café scene, which was shot at the very end. "That was sheer necessity," Slade explained, "because we had to rip down the—we shot the entire interiors in a tiny stage that we built and then when we went out on location while the art department were ripping down the apartment to make a café, which is why we had to shoot that at the end but the relationship between the two characters, I think between the two actors had to grow over that time and that was very important in that schedule."

They were asked how much time was spent rehearsing before they actually started shooting? Slade said they had five days in a room about the size of the stage kind of square. Or less. The rehearsal period was really good for determining that they all understood what they were doing and they all agreed they were doing the same thing. Ellen and Patrick both were completely prepared so that the rehearsal period was really just diligence and ironing out certain things which might read well on the page but might not come out right. Slade asked Ellen directly: "What was your experience with rehearsal? Would you rather not have done it?"

"No, no, it's good to cultivate trust," Ellen assured him. "I know that sounds cheesey but without it I don't think you can do something as intimate as make a film, which is pretty crazy."

Ellen was asked what she thought about the film's R rating? "Oh it sucks! Yeah, it really makes me go … Balls (pardon the pun)! I mean it just sucks because I really would like teenage girls and boys to see this and to see a character like this. Hopefully, they'll just sneak in or something."

"I'm sure they will," Slade concurred and then praised Patrick Wilson's performance. Trained on Broadway, Wilson hit all his marks perfect, which is great when reined by a tight schedule. "He just acted nonstop because he's used to the stage. And he really went beyond the call of duty body and soul, bodily. People say, 'Oh, the makeup on his hands look great.' No makeup on his hands! His hands were really tied up and blue." Only one stunt was done by a stunt double; everything else was done by the actors.

Ellen reminded Slade that he made her watch Kieslowski's A Short Film About Killing. "It was my only reference piece," he explained, "I said this has to be real, the performances have to be real, the violence has to be real and so I need you to kind of do it!" And they did, and they did it safely with a fantastic stunt coordinator. The exteriors were shot at the stunt coordinator's house; it was a safer place to do stunts and stuntwork, hence all the roof scenes and running around the house were shot there.

Ellen was asked how she and Patrick were able to draw on such raw emotions take after take after take? Especially Patrick when he had to pretend his balls were being cut off. What did they have to do to get those emotions to come out?

Ellen seemed at a loss for an answer and then replied simply, "I dunno, I just like really really love to do this more than anything, y'know? And I really just like to disappear and lose my mind, it's like a drug. To find those elements and just pull them up and just literally disappear so, I dunno, I totally get off on it so it's just what I love to do. It's hard to explain. It's just … I just dig it and I just love to keep going for it. It's just like something that I love to do, you know what I mean? Yeah, yeah, he was getting his balls cut off but I'm the one standing there with all the friggin dialogue!"

Speaking for Wilson, Slade added that Patrick has said a number of times that when you're tied to a table there's not a lot else to do but act. You're tied up! You take an inch of pain and you turn it into a pound of pain and you engross yourself in that. All that he asked of them as a director, however, was that both of them come from a very honest place. This has proven kind of problematic for some people; they ask, "Who's the villain?"

"If both characters come from an honest place then they're both the villain," Slade states, "or neither of them are. That's up to you. So chiefly the text becomes about responsibility and how much responsibility does each person take and how much responsibility do you take as an audience and how do you assess your values having gone through the film, having rooted for one character and then maybe perhaps change your mind and had to root for another character because at the end things turn out a different way. There are people who would love to have people like Hayley go out and become vigilante-type people, but, here we show that it's actually quite a complex, very very complex thing to do."

Slade concludes: "You can see at the end of the film that she takes the weight of the whole day on her face, that she's taken on the responsibility that Jeff refused to take. He would rather die than accept the responsibility for what he'd done. For me that's one of the chief things about Western society is that we don't like responsibility because it's scary and it's full of danger. To me, more than the text which is very current right now, the film is about responsibilities."

Sunday, April 09, 2006

Ray Harryhausen—The 7th Voyage of Sinbad


Ray Harryhausen destroyed Washington D.C. via an invasion of flying saucers. He caused havoc in Rome via the rampaging creature Ymir of 20 Million Miles to Earth, and demolished the Coney Island roller coaster in The Beast From 20,000 Fathoms. And with great pride in his voice Harryhausen gloated that he pulled down San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge via his infamous sextopus! But after destroying so many cities, and with the Japanese jumping on the bandwagon laying waste to Tokyo via one Godzilla or another, Harryhausen decided he wanted to try something different. He set aside destroying the cities of the world and turned to the adventurous legends of Sinbad from the Arabian classic The Thousand and One Nights.

Last night, to help celebrate the seventh anniversary of the San Rafael Film Center, Harryhausen introduced a restored print of The 7th Voyage of Sinbad, which—with all due deference to Ingmar Bergman—is the greatest movie with 7 in the title! The screening was also in conjunction with the recent Billboard Books publication of The Art of Ray Harryhausen, written by Harryhausen and Tony Dalton, foreword by Peter Jackson. The Art of Ray Harryhausen is rich with stunning examples of Harryhausen's preproduction panels, which served to secure funding for his films as well as to inspire and motivate the studio writers.

Joining Harryhausen on stage for a pre-screening discussion were Craig Barron, Arnold Kunert and Phil Tippett. Tippett credits The 7th Voyage of Sinbad with being the specific film that kickstarted his career in special effects. Craig Barron moderated the discussion via a slideshow of key illustrations from the book of characters in the film, beginning with the Cyclops.

The one-eyed, one-horned Cyclops of The 7th Voyage of Sinbad was Harryhausen's direct response against the man-in-the-Godzilla-suit style of special effects. He wanted to create a creature that clearly could not be a man in costume. Recycled from the armature of the Ymir from 20 Million Miles to Earth, the Cyclops strove for a representation far away from the easy notion of pasting an eye on the forehead of an Italian wrestler. Not many people notice that the second Cyclops that appears in the movie has two horns on his head.

The cover of the new book is Harryhausen's concept drawing of Sinbad fighting a skeleton on the top of a ruined spiral staircase. Initially, Harryhausen's choice of Sinbad was almost incidental; it was the skeleton that he wanted to animate. Pursuing that choice, however, forced Harryhausen to ask himself the question most people seldom ask: How do you kill Death? In The 7th Voyage of Sinbad the skeleton falls from the spiral staircase and his bones shatter on the rocks. In Jason and the Argonauts the skeletons plummet into the sea on the presumption that skeletons can't swim. As a Mayanist, I can only ponder the possibilities had Harryhausen explored the Mayan epic The Popol Vuh where the realm of death is harrowed and Death defeated by the clever intelligence of the Hero Twins.


Surprisingly, British censors cut out the swordfight between Sinbad and the skeleton as well as the scene where the Cyclops is roasting one of the sailors on a spit, allegedly for being too frightening for children. Harryhausen doesn't understand that reasoning since, nowadays, there are things in movies that would "frighten the devil"! Besides, every child carries a little skeleton around inside of him or her so what's the big deal?

As a special treat for his San Rafael Film Center audience, Harryhausen shared his model of the skeleton from The 7th Voyage of Sinbad. He demonstrated its ball and joint armature and how it could be manipulated into any position. He used the model again—along with six new ones—for the fight sequence in Jason and the Argonauts. He expressed his hope that seeing the small size of the model didn't disillusion anyone. He was a notorious "people shrinker" who would make his actors small to match the proportions of his models.

The next character in the slide show was the "snakewoman", one of Harryhausen's favorite characters in the film. "I had always wanted to add a character at that point in the story who was not only completely different from the dancing girls with diamonds in their navels that feature in most costume adventures," Harryhausen writes, "but who would also show the magical powers of [the magician] Sokourah. The snakewoman is conjured up by the sorcerer to perform a dance of death when he 'combines' Princess Parisa's handmaiden with a serpent. Her upper torso is that of a human female with the addition of an extra pair of arms, but the remainder of her body is that of a snake. I decided to give her four arms so that I could elaborate the snakewoman's dance; with just two arms the creature might have seemed a bit mundane, but the extra pair of arms enabled me to give her whole body an allure and a flow that worked wonderfully with the music." (2006:163) Initially, to animate the model, Harryhausen used the music from the film Salome (1953), loaned by Columbia's music library, as a guide that provided a beat; later, of course, "Bernie" Hermann wrote a wonderful new score that fitted perfectly with Harryhausen's animation. Harryhausen concedes that the snakewoman was a precursor of the incredible Medusa in his later venture The Clash of the Titans.

What did Harryhausen think of Peter Jackson's remake of King Kong? Some things worked for him, others didn't, but above all he states you can't criticize Jackson's point of view. The primary difference for Harryhausen between the original and the remake was Merian C. Cooper whose infectious vitality infused the character of Carl Denham in the original. Cooper was Denham! And there was no way Jackson could have replicated that. One of the highlights of Harryhausen's life was to work with Merian C. Cooper on Mighty Joe Young. Cooper taught Harryhausen about "the wonderful valley of what if?"


Harryhausen praised Wilkie Cooper's cinematography for The 7th Voyage of Sinbad. The film was made on the miniscule budget of $650,000. To light the scene of the cave on the island of Colossa (Majorca), they had to borrow lamps, which en route fell overboard and sank to the bottom of the sea. It is to Cooper's credit that he was able to light the cave with so little and have it look so fantastic.

Another interesting tidbit about The 7th Voyage of Sinbad is that Ray Harryhausen has never met Richard Eyer, who played Baronni, the genie in the lamp. All of Eyer's scenes were shot in the U.S. when Harryhausen was on location. Eyer has since become an elementary school teacher and he and Harryhausen will finally meet for the first time in a couple of weeks at a special Burbank screening.

Before the screening of The 7th Voyage of Sinbad, Arnold Kunert recalled how, at an earlier appearance at the San Rafael Film Center (Harryhausen has graced their stage four times), Harryhausen admitted that one of his few regrets was not animating the tales of Edgar Allen Poe. Kunert pursued the idea and found a group of stop action animators in Toronto willing to undertake the project. Serving as the project's executive producer, Harryhausen has come somewhat out of retirement to help them accomplish their goal. Kunert was delighted to introduce the West Coast premiere of The Pit and the Pendulum, directed by Marc Lougee, who is likewise maintaining a blog on the film. This eight-minute short will be screened at this Fall's Toronto Film Festival in hopes of securing the backing for a continued series.


During the Q&A Harryhausen was asked what he thought about the Wallace and Grommit films. Harryhausen stated that, even though they were using the same basic process, Wallace and Grommit are "stylized puppet films" whereas he always sought to disguise such puppetry and make his creatures as realistic and believable as possible.

Asked which of his animations were the most difficult, Harryhausen stated that it took him four and a half months to animate the skeleton battle sequence in Jason and the Argonauts. Four and a half months for five minutes footage! Had he known it was going to be so difficult, he probably would never have started. The seven heads of the Hydra were also challenging to achieve. All it took was one phone call interrupting the process to throw everything off!

Asked how he was able to make his monsters so sympathetic so that audiences actually mourned their deaths, Harryhausen reminded that he never called his animations "monsters"; they were "creatures." Clearly, his humanoid creatures elicited more sympathy; but, ultimately, they were the villains and had to be vanquished and/or killed. He remembers being told, however, that when the creature in Beast From 20,000 Fathoms died it was like watching an opera tenor.

Asked if any of his animations had been cut in the editing room, Harryhausen conceded to scenes being trimmed for length. There was one bit in the skeleton fight sequence of Jason and the Argonauts that was cut out because it interrupted the flow: and that was of the skeleton Jason beheads who then falls down on his hands and knees groping and searching for his head. It proved distracting.

Harryhausen admits to having a Zeus complex. He likes manipulating his figures like chess pieces on a board.

It seemed a bit unfair to subject Harryhausen to questions when he admittedly forgets the answers. He credits fish oil for any memory he has left and his quick retort to most questions is "It's in the book!!"

Friday, April 07, 2006

2006 SFIFF—In Bed (En La Cama, 2005)

Somewhere between festival program capsules that woo a filmgoer to attend a film and critical print reviews warning filmgoers to either abandon all hope before entering a moviehouse or to rage against the light while leaving, lies some modicum of personal truth experienced only by watching the film itself. I enjoy movies best before the images become saddled with description, riddled full of interpretations, or critically and decisively executed. Armed with pandering previews and ranting reviews, I sit in the dark and hope to suspend my disbelief. And if I'm lucky, that's exactly what happens. I accept the "frenzy on the wall" as representational of something real—at the least!—but, hopefully, the taint of representation will be skillfully minimized by a director so that I hasten to claim the cinematic experience as my own true experience.

The official website for Matías Bize's In Bed (En La Cama) attests to the film's vigorous rounds on the festival circuit. The program capsule for last November's Leeds International Film Festival found In Bed "[i]mmensely erotic, perceptive, touching and familiar" and insisted that—though the film is set in just one room—it was "never claustrophobic." In fact, that capsule concludes that "this simple yet hugely eloquent film creates a dreamy world where strangers are lovers and one room is all you need."

Shaz Bennett's capsule for last November's
AFI Fest praised director Matías Bize for "[a]llowing the performances to simmer and marinate on screen" and for setting up "an authentically satisfying denouement where a one-night stand can change your life."

Then in January at the
Palm Springs International Film Festival the program notes praised Bize for displaying "an intelligence and understanding of the fragility of sexual relationships that belies his youth."

By March—when In Bed reached the Miami International Film Festival—the festival program credited Bize with finding "a place so sensual that you'll forget all you know about sex in the movies—and then rediscover it."

But then In Bed screened at the New Directors/New Films Festival in New York City last month and the film's fall from preview grace was notable. At The New York Times, Manohla Dargis was at the head of the mob wanting to kill the monster. She countered the film was precisely claustrophobic and synopsized: "In between the orchestrated ohs and ahs and regularly timed cigarette breaks, the woman (Blanca Lewin) and man (Gonzalo Valenzuela) discreetly show off their pretty bodies, pleasure each other like practiced lovers (or porn stars) and slowly bare their uninteresting souls. The director Matías Bize clearly means for this soft-core encounter to open into something more substantial and not long after Round 1, alas, the newly acquainted bedmates start sounding and behaving a lot like a couple. The idea that strangers can engage in sex for pleasure without guilt, anguish and veritable laundry lists of complaints remains out of bounds, which gives this Chilean-German co-production a curiously old-fashioned, decidedly unsexy vibe."

At Slant, Ed Gonzalez was equally unforgiving: "[T]he entirety of In Bed suggests a mash-up of Before Sunrise and Tape run through Altavista's unreliable Babel Fish Translation service—you can't shake the feeling that there's something not quite right about how it looks and sounds." Gonzalez stresses: "In Bed is a great porn but a piss-poor drama. The sex here is diced not with musical performances but with painstakingly-scripted chitter chatter (topics include: vintage cartoons, Reiki massages, and movie pitches) that similarly works to schematize a movie that aims for some level of naturalism."

Nick Schager writes: "A sluggish rehash of Before Sunrise minus the romance and philosophical insightfulness, Matías Bize's In Bed (En La Cama nonetheless works so long as Bruno (hunky Gonzalo Valenzuela) and Daniela (sultry Blanca Lewin) are working up a sweat, the director's up-close-and-personal cinematographic depiction of writhing, slapping naked flesh successfully maintaining the film's temperature at a near-boil. Once the sex stops and the squawking begins, however, all is lost."

Leslie Felperin's measured (and ultimately fair)
Variety review, assesses that In Bed's "elegantly simple, Richard Linklater-esque concept, written by Julio Rojas, is energetically consummated by sophomore helmer Matias Bize . . . and its handsome leads." I smiled at her allusion to Samuel Beckett's tramps in Waiting for Godot (In Bed's duo announce several times that it's time for them to go, but neither actually leaves).

But it's Jorge Morales'
Havana 2005 Fipresci review that provides, in my estimation, the best contextual critique of not only In Bed, but the other Chilean features it has accompanied on the festival circuit—Alicia Scherson's Play and Sebastián Campos' The Sacred Family / La sagrada familia. It's definitely a worthwhile read.

"The case of Matías Bize," Morales writes, "is the most paradoxical one. His debut with Saturday (Sábado) was a display of creative freedom. It was made in one sequence shot, and improvisation, spontaneity and the unpredictable risks were taken as the base and the decisive contribution to the mise-en-scène; as the traces of a style. With In Bed, Bize wanted to repeat the same effect in a new exercise. During an hour and a half, he only filmed two characters locked up in a room having sex and talking about their lives. But the result is totally different, risk-free; pure calculation and no spontaneity. It's a thorough and extremely conventional screenplay that covers, as if following a checklist, all the topics one can think of for two sporadic lovers. Visually, Bize works with a framing that seeks to render the image more dynamic (looking for all sorts of angles), with no apparent reason other than 'oxygenizing' the confinement, and without providing the shots with any narrative or emotional value. In a spirit closer to a short film, In Bed advances stumbling from a minimalist gaze to an orchestration full of common places. Nevertheless, the awards obtained in La Havana (Third Coral and best screenplay) are not entirely unmerited given the low level of the films in competition, and the fact that In Bed responds to a common vice among filmmakers that have achieved a previous success: making films for festivals."

So all that being said: what did I think of Matías Bize's In Bed (En La Cama)? Not that it really matters since both sides of the fence have been aptly painted; but here goes. In Bed is softcore porn. Softcore because you don't really see any full frontal erections or penetration, but definitely porn because the film's two actors Blanca Lewin and Gonzalo Valenzuela are the stuff of fantasies. She's a babe and he's a hunk. If you like to fuck, you'll want Blanca; if you like to get fucked, you'll want Gonzalo. If you're a switchhitter, you'll want a bigger bed. If you're a voyeur, you'll want a bigger keyhole.

I had no problem leaning back and enjoying the film on its surface, much like I would enjoy fooling around some evening with a stranger in a motel, and that is quintessentially what the film endeavors to express: the "transient shelter" that casual sex frequently provides the young. Bize succeeded in arresting my attention by making the scenario attractive via good casting and not-so-bad acting. His conceit that the bed is "a narrative place", a "most fundamental place" past whose limits "the universe disappears" is unflinchingly romantic, even if within the film he betrays the conceit by shooting a scene in the bath tub and boasts a game where the characters walk on strewn clothing on the floor without actually touching the floor (otherwise the world will end). In other words, they don't spend the whole time in the bed. But the depths that Bize hopes to plumb from this scenario are precisely demeaned by its softcore porn sexiness. This is a realm probably best relegated to Carlos Reygadas and actors I don't really want to see fuck each other.

Apt comparisons have been made between Julio Rojas' script and Richard Linklater's Before Sunrise / Before Sunset dyptich, which ultimately I found much sexier for remaining within the unconsummated dalliance. Discussing this with bud Bob Hoffman after the press screening, Bob stated he found the dialogue more believable in In Bed than in Linklater's films but I can't say I find the dialogue believable in either directors' work. Points are trying to be made in the relationships in both directors' work that really don't have anything to do with how relationships actually track; they're meant to suggest key elements. They're kind of like relationships and, for the strictures of a film, kind of work. In her Variety review, Leslie Felperin notes: "Like Before Sunrise, open-ending positively invites post-screening debate between realist and romantic-minded auds as to whether the characters will or won't ultimately get it together."

What worked for me in Bize's In Bed was the premise that the casual one-night stand can become the safest confessional because you can unload some deep dark secret that you've been carrying around too long. In my experience I have found this to be true. Orgasmic relief coupled to confessional absolution is a great doubleshot!! Wham wham bam bam thank you, mamn, Goddamn! And Daniela and Bruno—intuiting they will never see each other again—are free to hunt out secrets in her purse and his wallet. Those secrets truly intrigue and give the film its most interesting moments.

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Thursday, April 06, 2006

Philip Lopate—American Movie Critics: An Anthology From the Silents Until Now

Philip Lopate's recently-published landmark collection of film criticism is being celebrated at the Pacific Film Archives where Lapote—a long time champion of the work of Mikio Naruse—will introduce a screening of Wife! Be Like A Rose! on Sunday, April 9, 2006 at 3:00 pm.

Then on Wednesday, April 12, at 7:30 p.m. Lapote will have a chat with David Thomson at Codys Books on Telegraph in Berkeley. Good chance to ask Thomson some Angie Dickinson questions before the next big blogathon!

Via Girish, Andrew Horbal has a great overview of the critical response to Lapote's latest. Andrew also points to James Marcus' House of Mirth interview with Lapote and Marcus' review of the book for Newsday.com.

Imagining the Real—Paul Rusesabagina: An Ordinary Man

This April marks the 12th anniversary of the Rwandan genocide when almost one million people were killed in Rwanda. Paul Rusesabagina, the hotel manager who saved the lives of over 1,200 fellow Rwandan people during the horrific events of 1994, and whose story was recently portrayed by Don Cheadle in the film Hotel Rwanda, is on tour with his new book, An Ordinary Man. He'll be making a few Bay Area appearances. Via Stacey's Bookstore and the World Affairs Council, Rusesabagina will discuss the events depicted in the movie, the international response to Rwanda, and his role in this chaotic time on Friday, April 21, noon, at the Marine's Memorial Theater. For reservations and information, call (415) 293-4600. If you're not a member of the World Affairs Council, you will have a second chance to catch Rusesabagina at A Clean Well-Lighted Place for Books at 7:00 that evening.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

2006 SFIFF—LATIN AMERICAN & SPANISH LINE-UP!

Graham Leggat, Executive Director for San Francisco's 49th International Film Festival, and his programming team came under fire at the press conference late last month when the festival's program lineup was announced. Critics claimed female directors and African films were underrepresented. I had to agree; but, couldn't complain about the festival's Latin American and Spanish line-up, which boasts eleven entries this year, three of whom are vying for the 10th annual SKYY Prize of $10,000 (honoring emerging talent in feature debuts)!! Latin American/Spanish films remain my fave rave!

"Urban landscapes are explored in Alicia Scherson's lively
Play (Chile) and in Roberto Gervitz's Underground Game (Brazil). In Play, a SKYY Prize contender punctuated by a powerful soundtrack, a woman from the country and an upscale urbanite cross paths as each looks for love in Santiago. In Underground Game, Roberto Gervitz turns the subways of Sao Paulo into a playground for finding love as a piano player spends his days constructing a specific route on the subway, hoping to find a woman who follows the same route. [Both directors Scherson and Gervitz are expected to attend the festival, as well as Underground Game's composer, Luiz Henrique Xavier.]

"Two South American expatriate directors residing in France (Raoul Ruiz, born in Chile and Juan Solanas, born in Argentina) weave tales that involve crossing the Atlantic. The Lost Domain (Ruiz, France) tells the story of various meetings between a French aviator and a young Chilean, whose lives intersect despite their opposing natures through a shared love of flying. In the SKYY Prize contender Northeast (Solanas, Argentina), a French woman's attempts to adopt a child in Buenos Aires go awry, so she travels to the northeastern region of Argentina and meets a pregnant woman who may be able to solve her problem. [The Lost Domain and Northeast are both West Coast premieres and Northeast's director Juan Solanas will be attending the festival.]

"Three sultry Latin American films explore passion and relationships. In Delicate Crime (Beto Brant, Brazil) a theater critic falls for a one-legged beauty who is also involved with the painter for whom she models. The critic's jealousy and intense feelings lead to an encounter which the woman claims is rape and the man says is an act of passion. [Delicate Crime is a U.S. premiere.] In Bed (Matías Bize, Chile) shows two young Chileans who spend the night together in a hotel room, as they contemplate life, love and sex. [In Bed is a West Coast premiere and director Bize will be in attendance.] And Sérgio Machado tells a story of two best friends who fall for the same beautiful young hooker in Lower City (Brazil). [Machado will be attending the festival, as well as his leading actress Alicia Braga.]

"Characters struggle and hope for better lives in three Latin American films. In the beautifully shot The House of Sand (Andrucha Waddington, Brazil), three generations of women struggle amid the inhospitable sand dunes of northern Brazil. [The House of Sand is a West Coast premiere and director Waddington will be attending the festival.] Ricardo Benet's News from Afar (Mexico), a moving and surreal SKYY Prize contender, is about a teenager living in the Mexican highlands who decides to seek a better life (and his biological father) in Mexico City. [Director Benet will be in attendance. The film is being co-sponsored by The Mexican Museum.] And in the passionate documentary The Dignity of the Nobodies (Argentina), director Fernando E. Solanas investigates Argentina's economic collapse and follows the efforts of various citizens to fight back and create a habitable living situation for themselves and their country people. [The Dignity of the Nobodies is a U.S. premiere and Solanas will be in attendance.]

"Rounding out SFIFF's selection of Latin American films is Viva Cuba (Juan Carlos Cremata, Cuba), a delightful film featured in the Spotlight: Family Films section of the program. In the film, two best friends (a young boy and girl) are faced with separation when it is revealed that the girl's mother is seeking to leave Cuba. When they find out, they run away in search of her father so they can persuade him not to sign the documents that would permit emigration."

Along with the festival's specific Latino showcase, there will also be the West Coast premiere of
Sólo Dios Sabe (Carlos Bolado, Mexico/Brazil), co-sponsored by The Mexican Museum. "Road movie, passionate romance and spiritual quest—a lost passport sparks a voyage of discovery for a Brazilian student and a Mexican journalist. Their journey takes them on an exploration of mystical religion and destiny and a final leap of faith." Bolado will be attending the festival and—as mentioned before for Lower City—actress Alicia Braga will also be here. Must be sweet to be the actress of two Latin American films in the festival!

Spain's official Oscar candidate Obaba (Montxo Armendáriz, Spain/Germany), set in a mythical region in the Basque country, creates a beautifully enigmatic world, which fascinates and puzzles a young teacher who has arrived there with her video camera on a class assignment. Armendáriz will be attending the festival.

Master director Carlos Saura doesn't just make dance films, he makes films dance! In
Iberia (Spain/France)—his intensely beautiful tribute to composer Isaac Albéniz—Saura tours southern Spain through music and performance, including ballet, flamenco and contemporary styles.

The Grönholm Method (Marcelo Piñeyro, Spain/Argentina) is about a large multinational corporation in Madrid where seven job applicants are thrown together in a room in a suspenseful dog-eat-dog competition, Survivor style, for a high position in the company. Director Piñeyro will be attending this West Coast premiere.

And finally, the documentary
Favela Rising (Jeff Zimbalist / Matt Mochary, Brazil/U.S.A.) takes the filmgoer into one of the toughest barrios in Brazil where a drug trafficker turned social revolutionary musician leads his community into an art-inspired war against the drug trafficking army holding them captive. An inspiring story of redemption and survival within a battleground of drugs and violence. To be screened with the short, Phoenix Dance. Documentarian Zimbalist will be in attendance.

So there you have it! Only Lower City and The House of Sand have hold reviews so you can anticipate The Evening Class reviews on all of the others and as many interviews as my broken Spanish can muster!!

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Sunday, April 02, 2006

TAIWANESE CINEMA—Kôhî jikô (Café Lumière)

It was Doug Cummings' 2004 Toronto International Film Festival review of Hou Hsiao-hsien's Kôhî jikô (Café Lumière) that first brought my attention to this film. I added it to my wish list. Then while in Paris last September I had my first opportunity to view Café Lumière, albeit in Taiwanese with French subtitles. I'm proficient in neither language but elected to experiment with immersing myself in the film's visual imagery. It was an interesting way to watch a movie and not a completely worthless experiment; I lost a lot even as I watched a lot. I focused on composition, camera work, lighting, while my traveling companion Michael Hawley—who has much more of a command of French than I do—every now and then would whisper some key plot detail into my ear, just to keep me tangentially moored. So I was especially glad to have a second chance to view Café Lumière (with English subtitles!) at the 2006 San Francisco International Asian American Film Festival. Unfortunately, however, I had a fever and bad cough by this stage of the festival and halfway through the film had to leave to go home and rest; I was just too sick. As much as I wanted to, I didn't feel I could write it up.

If Michael Hawley has been responsible for awakening my love for world cinema and festival fare, Frako Loden—in her write-ups for the SF Weekly, postings on The WELL, and preview capsules for various Bay Area festival programs—has, without question, furthered and deepened my appreciation of Asian and Asian American film. Thus, it is with particular delight that I offer Frako's recent "rough notes" on Café Lumière to counter my own lack of commentary on this lovely, measured film. What I appreciate about Frako's review is its keen perception of Tokyo's spatiality.

* * *

I just loved Hou Hsiao-hsien's Café Lumière (2003), or (the Japanese or Taiwanese title) Coffee Jikou. I don't know what jikou means—it's a compound I've never seen. Maybe it's Mandarin? It's the ji of toki (time) and the kou of hikari (light).

The story is simple. Yoko (Yo Hitoto), a young woman writer, has come back from one of her many trips to Taiwan, where she has a boyfriend and where she's been doing research about a (real) Taiwanese composer, Jiang Wenye, who lived in Japan most of his life. She lives near Kishibojin-mae station, which is on the Arakawa line. Her friend Hajime (Asano Tadanobu) runs a used book store in Ochanomizu and is a recorder of train sounds. Maybe in that same area they hang out at a cafe called Erika. When she returns from her Taiwan trip, she visits her parents near Yoshii station and they visit her grandparents' graves in Takasaki. Most of the time she travels on the Yamanote line trying to figure out Jiang's haunts while he was alive, like a cafe in Ginza 2-chome that is no longer there (it's Paper House now). She also visits Jiang's widow.

Meanwhile she's pregnant and tells Hajime and her parents. The father is her Taiwanese boyfriend, but she doesn't plan to marry him because he and his mother are too close. His family runs an umbrella factory in Thailand, and he wants Yoko to live with him there. She seems content to give birth and raise the child by herself. Her parents are very concerned, but not much discussion gets accomplished. Her mother urges her father to talk to Yoko, but he pretty much sits and says nothing although you can tell he wants to say something. Instead he offers her chunks of potato from his bowl of nikujaga, which she loves and has her mother bring on a visit.

The film's connections with [Yasujiro] Ozu: Both this and Ozu's films were made at Shochiku Studio. There's a title at the beginning honoring the centenary of his birth (1903). The opening scene is of a person being greeted on a return from a trip (while Tokyo Story's first scene is of a person being greeted just before he leaves on a trip to Tokyo). The film slows down for long shots of passing trains, like so many of Ozu's films do. The film has many scenes of families coming together and having meals or cleaning graves, making casual conversation. There's tension between a father and daughter who obviously have unspoken affection for each other. The camera is still and at the so-called "tatami level" in many scenes. Yoko's parents visit her in Tokyo. She doesn't pack them off to a hot springs resort like the offspring do in Tokyo Story, but there is a divide. For example, she seems more moved by Jiang and his wife's lives than that of her parents.

One of the train lines often featured in the film is the Arakawa line, Tokyo's only surviving above-ground streetcar network. Unlike the subways, the Arakawa line trains are slow, weave through untouristy neighborhoods not destroyed in the 1945 firebombing, and allow riders to view the landscape. It's considered the train line from another era.

Yoko lives on the Arakawa line at Kishibojin-mae station, which is located in front of Kishibojin (or Kishimojin), a Nichiren Buddhist temple housing the goddess who protects mothers and children (formerly the monstrous Indian demon Hariti, a child-kidnapper and devourer who was converted by Buddha. "Now she represents the Buddha's appeal to compassion, and his devotion to the welfare of the weak. Kishimojin is portrayed as a mother suckling her baby and holding a pomegranate in her hand (the symbol of love and feminine fertility)."

It's the temple that Yoko's mother drops by when they first arrive at Yoko's house, making Yoko and her father wait. It's her way of expressing concern for Yoko's unborn child without talking about it. It might also be a habit for her own sake, presumably having no children of her own since Yoko is a stepdaughter. I remember an enormous 600-year-old gingko tree at the temple that is also thought to confer fertility. Just the proximity of Kishibojin to Yoko's home seems to ensure the safe birth of her baby.

[Slant explains that Café Lumière's title is] "a reference to the Lumière Brothers' seminal short film of a train entering a station." Of course the kou of Jikou is translated into lumière in French. Actually Nick Schager's [Slant] review is worth quoting: "As is his hallmark, the director's formal rigorousness takes the form of measured, protracted takes in which the camera detachedly lingers on its protagonists (or, at times, on mundane, uninhabited scenery), and both the general absence of a score and Mark Lee Ping-bin's delicate, naturalistic cinematography—a far cry from his color-saturated work on Hou's Millennium Mambo—create a mood of enveloping serenity."

Yoko and Hajime are a species of Tokyoite depicted in movies who are not alienated by their urban environment. They are like the Angelenos that Phyllis Dietrichson envies so much in Double Indemnity: "It sounds wonderful. Just strangers beside you. You don't know them and you don't hate them." But of those she does know, Yoko has created a comforting environment of supporters. Hajime finds books for her, the master at Cafe Erika serves her hot milk and helps orient her toward the Jiang landmarks in Tokyo that have disappeared. When she rides the trains, she either stands near the front behind the driver's shoulder, watching him and the windscreen, or falling gently asleep. When she feels sick, she slumps against the wall of the platform and tells Hajime she'll be late. Nobody threatens her or looks at her weird. She doesn't shut out her environment with headphones or text messaging.

While watching Café Lumière I kept forgetting that it was directed by someone who doesn't make Tokyo his home. The film is so deeply familiar with its setting and mood somehow. Maybe he shows trains more than somebody who lives there, though. His shots of trains snaking across the landscape hint at an outsider's fascination. But more than any other non-Japanese director, Hou shows how Tokyo is a collection of tiny villages that Tokyoites create for themselves. The Yamanote circle line surrounds the center of Tokyo, the Imperial Palace (the sun), and from the stations on that circle radiate the rays to the outlying parts. So it takes you where you need to go, but it provides a reassuring and teeming "womb" composed of tiny villages, the form Tokyo took centuries ago.

* * *

My thanks to Frako for picking up my slack!! Along with her insightful impressions of Café Lumière, I would further recommend Girish Shambu's comments from the Toronto International Film Festival: "The experience of watching a Hou film does a funny thing to your mind and body. It slows your rhythms right down, and chills you out—not in a narcotic or somnolent fashion, but in a way that sharpens your attention, pulling you deep into the depths of the movie screen."

Also Filmbrain's commentary from the New York Film Festival: "The composition of the family scenes, shot at tatami-level from an almost voyeuristic point outside of the room (door frames often take up a portion of the screen), can be found in nearly all of Ozu's films. There's also a tremendous attention to detail, including several items that appear multiple times and in multiple places throughout the film—clocks, umbrellas, fans, and even milk."

Rouge has published an excerpt from Shigehiko Hasumi's keynote lecture for the Hou Hsiao-hsien conference held last April 2005. Hasumi's excerpt studies the role of trains in the director's oeuvre. "How does Café Lumière depict the railway networks that criss-cross Japan's capital city? The Tokyo of this film, Hou's first foreign work, includes none of the bustle of government and business in the downtown areas, none of the city's skyscrapers, and none of the neon signs of the entertainment districts. Hou's view of the city is characterised, rather, by the fact that his camera ignores completely the expressways that have been the image of cities of the future ever since Andrei Tarkovsky's Solaris (1972)." Incidentally, Hasumi is cameoed in Café Lumière as the café waiter delivering coffee to Hajime's bookshop.

In his write-up for Bright Lights Film Journal, Ian Johnston shies away from drawing too many resemblances between Hou and Ozu, and focuses instead—and rather interestingly at that—on their differences and distances. "In the end," Johnston writes, "the differences between Hou's and Ozu's film worlds are as great as their similarities."
04/05/06 Addendum: Meanwhile, Acquarello at Strictly Film School is not as impressed with Café Lumière, opining that "Hou resorts to familiar devices of expounding minimal narrative through telephone conversations, overdistilled ellipses (to the point of incoherence), and distended temps morts." Further, Acquarello comments: "[T]he theory about Ozu shooting his films at tatami level (popularized by Donald Richie) has been disproven by [David] Bordwell and critics like Tadao Sato. The camera height is actually around 18-24" inches, and unless these are small kids, the eye level from a tatami mat would not be that low."
04/10/06 Addendum: Steve at globality.org provides a wry rant against the audience that attended his screening of Café Lumière: "[I]f you're obviously drunk and looking for a good time, how do you end up at a movie prominently advertised in the SFIAAFF program as a tribute to I-wouldn't-dare-move-the-camera Yasuhiro Ozu by five-minute-shot-meister Hou Hsiao-Hsien? '...elegant, stark calligraphy of images'? '...often letting silences fill in the lines'? What part of that says, 'nice capper to a wild evening on the town'?"

Steve also provides an appreciative review of the film. "[B]efore watching this film," Steve cautions, "it's important to give up all expectations of a plot. If you take it on its own terms, watching it can be a soft and comforting experience." He furthers: "The earlier you give in and just abide with these people, the more you'll enjoy Café Lumière." He concludes: "[T]his is a film about birth, and it quivers with quiet, yet growing, energy."

Saturday, April 01, 2006

2006 SFIFF—La Vita Che Vorrei (The Life I Want)

By comparison to Perhaps Love, the film-within-a-film love story in Giuseppe Piccioni's La Vita Che Vorrei (The Life I Want) seems downright old-fashioned, yet all the more engaging for it. Even the love theme from Laura is layered into it, lending the film an old romance movie feel as it gestures to the film's female protagonist, aspiring actress Laura, played by Sandra Ceccarelli. La Vita Che Vorrei (The Life I Want) is a tasteful setting for Ceccarelli's jewel of a performance. Talk about a camera loving an actor's face!! She strikes me as the Italian counterpart to Liv Tyler (via her self-amused smile) and Allison Janney (via her mature sensuality).

As for her male co-star, I'm beginning to wonder if I shall ever see an Italian film without Luigi Lo Cascio? I just saw him in La Bestia Nel Cuore (Don't Tell) and—previously, of course—in The Best of Youth. Not that that's a bad thing, mind you. I enjoy Luigi. He does a fine turn in La Vita Che Vorrei (The Life I Want) as Stefano, a successful actor concerned his career is about to fail even as he falls in love—despite himself—with an actress on her way up.

The two are cast in a period drama whose plot and characters neatly align with those in their "real" lives. Unlike Perhaps Love, however, subtlety is not eschewed in La Vita Che Vorrei (The Life I Want) and, thus, I felt something for these two souls and the complex emotions summoned through and drawn into their performances.

Cathleen Rountree has already made the specific comparisons to Truffaut's Day for Night and Reisz's The French Lieutenant's Woman, noting as well the film's melodramatic allegiance to Camille and La Traviata.

As an aside, Cathleen introduced herself to me before one of the press screenings with a query about my digital recorder, which she'd spotted me using at the press conference earlier in the week. We started sharing enthusiasm and I discovered that Cathleen is working on a book—The Movie Lovers' Club—exploring the social possibilities of cinema experience. I hope to review her book and interview her in the near future for The Evening Class.

2006 SFIFF—Perhaps Love

Whether through intention or coincidence, the two press screenings this last Thursday—Peter Ho-Sun Chan's Perhaps Love and Giuseppe Piccioni's La Vita Che Vorrei (The Life I Want)—were both love stories structured as films within a film. As meditations on a theme, they enhanced each other, though they were styles apart.

Perhaps Love is the first Hong Kong feature to open the San Francisco International Film Festival. For that alone, the programmers deserve a nod. Director Chan will be present to accept accolades and there's no doubt this visual dazzler will launch the buzz right into the opening night gala at the Regency Center. But I'm conflicted about Perhaps Love. I loved the look of it but really didn't like the film much at all. I side very much with Twitch on this one: "Perhaps Love is one of those rare films so visually impressive that you [could] literally take it apart frame by frame and not find a single weak image. The images on screen are simply stunning. Unfortunately Perhaps Love is littered with so many other flaws that, pretty pictures or not, the film verges on unwatchable."

I don't know as much about movies as others do, but, I do know that if I go into a movie and immediately discern that it has skillfully thieved from Andrew Lloyd Webber, Baz Luhrmann and Rob Marshall, that I'm about to choke—albeit dazzled—on the derivative. But at least derivative of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Baz Luhrmann and Rob Marshall, all of whom I like a lot in fact! So, in between trying to figure out whether I'm in the past, present, in the movie or in the movie within the movie, I was also distracted identifying lifts from Phantom of the Opera, some Moulin Rouge, a bit of Chicago…. By the time the whole phantasmagora was over and my mind had been run over by cinematic citation, I really didn't have much left over to feel for any of the film's characters.

Notwithstanding, it's an exuberant eyeful! Even as your eye is drawn in to the clear aesthetic of winter in Bejing—soft snowfall framing two hearts on fire—you are later reminded how fake the snow is, and how the snowfall is cleverly effected by offscreen technicians. That's not very nice. Just when I start to feel something, I'm reminded any feeling I might have would merely be a manipulated sentiment. Not nice at all. After a while I didn't want to risk any feeling whatsoever. Why should I? But then, maybe that's just what the film is trying to present?

So I allowed myself to be the visual sponge the film demanded I be. Sumptuous restless cinematography by Christopher Doyle and Peter Pau (my favorite were the circus scenes, lit from beneath like Degas, staged in bizarre Cirque d'Soleil chic, archetypes in the center ring, rendering love without a net as a trapeze act of trust in the high air). And I applaud Farah Khan's extravagant choreography, especially the "prostitutes" song. Meant to remind you of the "Cell Block Tango", it compiles the gist of this clip, for your perusal via Twitch.

Rewatching that clip reminds me that it looks much better and engages more forcefully without subtitles. Yet another distraction: Subtitles whose cerebral and calculated poetry effectively blocked any sensuality the visuals delivered.

The greatest distraction a film can make is to draw attention to itself. That's why breaking the proscenium and films-within-a-film are true challenges, best for laughs, and difficult to achieve. Chan almost achieved it here—and I really wanted him to!—but ultimately he has weakened the project by winking one too many times at influences, references, resemblances and a steady diet of major talent. An unknown might have injected a bit of love into this piece. Perhaps.

I agree with Graham Leggat that the pan-Asian cast is "ravishing." But someone still needs to buy Takeshi Kaneshiro a swimsuit and his love interest Zhou Xun a dental guard. Please.

2006 SFIFF—The Heart of the Game

I'm so glad that Ruby Rich acknowledges the optimistic heart of Ward Serrill's The Heart of the Game. "It's being described as a hoop dreams for girls, but I don't think that's fair to it. …It's not just about basketball and the individual experience of poverty. It's much more about the intense pressure of gender socialization and the amazing display of what happens when you begin to undo it."

As disinterested as I am in team sports generally, I really loved The Heart of the Game. I am impressed with Serrill's devotion to the film's premise, that he spent six years following the rise of the Roughriders, an all-girl Seattle basketball team. His editing is lean and tight as he adeptly abbreviates the various seasons of the team—their wins, their losses—and builds the film's momentum even as relationships are established between coach Bill Resler ("Santa Claus in Birkenstocks") and the team's key players, notably Darnellia Russell, whose talent and perseverance against increasingly unfair odds are sure to inspire sports enthusiasts and non-enthusiasts alike. Resler's ingenuity in providing inspirational guidance to his players—either through offering driving metaphors ("You're a tropical storm! You're a pack of wolves! You're a pride of lions! You're a school of piranha! DRAW BLOOD!") or bringing in senior citizen Maude Lepley, one of the original girl basketball players, to talk to her young cohorts—is near to genius. I was biting my fingernails as the Roughriders took it to the hoop. This, hands down, has been my favorite film yet from this year's festival!

Sir! No Sir!—The Evening Class interview with David Zeiger


I met David Zeiger midmorning at San Francisco's Ninth Street Independent Film Center after he'd already done a Quake radio interview and had a little breakfast afterwards. Eager for the opportunity to interview him in the midafternoon while he was visiting S.F., I negotiated a pick up of a screener dvd of his new documentary Sir! No Sir! and caught BART home to watch it.

Riding MUNI on my way back to the Center to conduct the interview, I was disappointed I didn't get to at least watch Sir! No Sir! twice. I would have liked to have had more time to appreciate it fully. As an incisive historical document, it deserved at least that much respect. David Zeiger immediately put me at ease, said not to worry, the guy who was interviewing him on the radio hadn't even seen the film and thought it was a feature. So I relaxed and decided to just have a casual conversation.

On the bus getting there I had reviewed Jonathan Stein's Mother Jones interview with Zeiger, which I felt more-than-adequately covered the background of the film so I didn't feel any need to ask any of those questions, but I was intrigued by some of Zeiger's comments in that interview and he agreed discussing those would be a perfect start.

Sir! No Sir! tells many different stories of resistance from within the military, but one of its most intriguing is that of "The Worms", Air Force interpreters trained in Vietnamese whose job it was to fly over North Vietnam intercepting radio communications. Seeing the difference between what they knew was going on and what the American people were being told, these interpreters formed the WORMS ("We Openly Resist Military Stupidity"). During the infamous 1972 Christmas bombings of North Vietnam, many of them went on strike. In Sir! No Sir! they bravely attest to "…The bombing of populated areas, civilian areas; the bombing of hospitals—things that the US denied over and over again that we were engaged in. Those are things that we were engaged in and we had access to that information. And the lies were so stark, it challenged your own dignity, it challenged your own loyalty, it challenged your own humanity."

These men who came out after 35 years to reveal their participation in The Worms had basically been hiding their story all this time for fear of legal repercussion. In the Mother Jones interview Zeiger stated he didn't know what would happen to these men when the film was released. I had to know if anything had happened? Had they been placed in any kind of jeopardy? Had there been repercussions?

"Not as far as we know at this point," Zeiger advised, noting that it had been a very difficult choice for them. They had all talked a lot about the issue of potential ramifications for coming forth at this time. "They came to me, they contacted me, when they heard about the film!" Zeiger stressed, emphasizing their voluntary bravery.

Zeiger explained they all felt—for one thing—that principally what was being talked about in the film and the aspect of their work that was being revealed was essentially the politics of what they were doing and their reaction to it. It wasn't as if anything they would be discussing would harbor information that would threaten national security. The technology has since gone way past what it was at that time.

"We have new ways to wage a war," I suggested and Zeiger laughed, agreed. "Exactly", he said, "and I think they've all been—on some level—waiting for the opportunity to tell their story and this was really the time when it was important to tell it."

"On one level I would say I don't really expect any legal ramifications," Zeiger offered but then suggested that on the other hand there have been recent cases of former servicemen who have been arrested for their anti-war activities in the 60s and 70s. One case in particular sprang to his mind of a guy who was living in Canada who had crossed the border dozens of time to visit friends and family. A few weeks ago for the first time he crossed the border and his name showed up on a wanted list and—wham!—he was arrested, taken to Camp Pendleton and held incommunicado. Zeiger wasn't sure about the guy's current status; whether or not he will be belatedly court martialed, but said the situation serves as a reminder that it's not like people's actions during the Vietnam war were irrelevant; they remain relevant today.

I expressed my hope that nothing happens to The Worms in his documentary. "I do too!" Zeiger emphasized and added that he and his company were prepared to get something done for them if need be. "But the more out there the film is, the more public the story is," Zeiger believes, it will serve to protect them from recrimination.

Zeiger further commented in the Mother Jones interview: "A big strength of the film, and what I think is going to bring it into the mainstream, is that this is a historical metaphor. We don't have to say a word about Iraq in the film for it to be clearly identified with Iraq for people. But [because it doesn't mention Iraq], the film can't be shoved into the category of a propaganda film." This distinction of the film being a "historical metaphor" rather than propaganda intrigued me. Because clearly not everyone is thinking that. On the film's website Zeiger graciously provides space for dissenting reviews, in particular one from the Marooned in Marin blog, which accused the movie—as well as Beth Ashley's Marin Independent Journal article promoting the February 2006 appearance of Jane Fonda for a benefit screening of Sir! No Sir! at Mill Valley's Throckmorton Theatre—as "simply another forum for her and aging 1960's leftists to spread their lies about Vietnam and claim parallels to Iraq."

It's only natural that with increased visibility comes a higher number of yays and nays. "You make a film and put it out there," Zeiger says matter-of-factly, and there's really no way to know how it's going to affect people. Certainly he wants the film to do good, to make some kind of change, but the best way for a film to do that is by telling a story and not by pounding someone over the head with propaganda. The story the film is telling is convincing in its own right, speaks for itself, and Zeiger wants people to take it that way, to use it that way. If this historical metaphor informs public perception of the war in Iraq, that's valid, even if it is not specifically addressed in the documentary itself. The important thing is for as many people to see it as possible so they can make up their own minds and draw their own connections. That was one of the reasons Zeiger decided the documentary should open in theaters rather than be immediately released on dvd, to get it out as broadly as possible to audiences.

Whether or not Sir! No Sir! specifically talks about armed ground forces in Iraq, it is being screened at several benefits for Iraq Vets Against the War, including one on Thursday, April 6th at 7:00pm, at the Grand Lake Theater, 3200 Grand Avenue in Oakland. Advance tickets $8, $10 at the door; for tickets call 415-255-7296, ext. 244.

"That aspect of the film is very real," Zeiger concedes, "I'm glad that people are, y'know, taking it that way." But he insists his film is not propaganda.

Part of my training as a young man was as a Mayanist. I studied Maya history and epigraphy. I was taught then to take all historical information gleaned from elite hieroglyphic texts with a certain grain of salt because, as everyone knows, the winners write history. One of the things I liked most about Sir! No Sir! was that it questioned that premise, especially in terms of defining who "the winners" truly are, and the process of rewriting history. What I came away with from my first viewing of Zeiger's documentary was this uncomfortable sense that one of the most insidious thing done in the rewriting of the history of the Vietnam War was the systematic erasure from the public record of this G.I. anti-war movement. "Absolutely," Zeiger agreed, that's part of why it was important to make this film.

"The process of erasing this from history is a very complex one," Zeiger explained, pointing out that shortly after the Vietnam War was declared over, there was a great emphasis on reconciliation, putting the war behind us, wanting to forget. Focus was shifted to the returning veteran, hailed as a hero for defending his country, and shame was placed on those Americans who protested the war. Their protest was configured as being unpatriotic, tarnishing the efforts of these young men who had risked their lives in the name of their country. The image of the protesting veteran became subsumed in a cultural project of revisionist history engineered by the government and the complicit media. There was some vigilance, of course. A few books were written about the GI movement in the 70s, and since then there have been other books written, some work-up, but for the main part mainstream culture, including the more progressive, have all but forgotten the G.I. anti-war movement. For various reasons the idea of resistance within the military was simply unacceptable. Such an option meant the Vietnam war—in fact the concept of war—wasn't honored. It was not principally a question of the American people being opposed to war. They were opposed to further war, or more wars like Vietnam.

The last thing that would be included in the rewritten history of the Vietnam War would be the fact that the soldiers themselves were opposed to it. That would be the thing that would have to be edited out. To think otherwise would be treasonous and conspiratorial. It just made sense for the whole rewriting of the war to forget such a resistance ever happened and to focus on the heroic returning veteran. Even Hollywood got on the bandwagon. There had never been a Hollywood film about the Vietnam war that even hinted of the GI resistance movement. Sure, there were films about the veterans coming home and the difficulties they faced in readjusting to civilian life, and films about the veterans protesting the war once they were released from duty, but none of the on-duty soldiers who worked against the war. Hollywood gave us Rambo. "Which taught us that women could spit," I grinned. Zeiger laughed. "Exactly." He caught my deferential reference to the urban myth that returning veterans were spat upon by female hippie anti-war protestors.

"Because it's not a matter of something simply disappearing," Zeiger continued. "You can't have those two things side by side; having GIs protesting the war being spat on by antiwar activists. Doesn't make sense, right?"

It interested me how this urban myth had been created. Zeiger intimated that initially its creation wasn't purposeful, it was generated out of the popular culture, through movies. But during the (first) Bush administration, it became very purposeful. That was when ground troops were first being sent over to Iraq and the Bush administration made it a point of debate, actually put it out there, that the worst thing you could do was what they did back in the 60s when they spat upon the troops. This was one of their ways of rallying support for their current endeavors.

The images that were coming through the American media at that time, I remember, was of all the bombing visualized as a video game. The detachment and the distancing dehumanized the enemy. As Zeiger's film testified, aerial bombing had long become the alleged lesson learned in Vietnam. Never sending ground forces into a war that would last too long became the wisdom of experience. Air strikes were the way to go!! More could be damaged and more could be killed at less cost to our own. This strategic style of warfare and its application in Vietnam was never as clear to me as presented in Sir! No Sir! And it further served to clarify how there is dissent, even at top levels, regarding the ground troops that have been sent into Iraq to occupy the country and protect our assets. The military lesson that was allegedly learned in Vietnam is being purposely ignored and at what cost?

Zeiger and I also discussed the depiction of the black soldiers' resistance to the Vietnam war, especially those in the Army who were asked to return home to war against protestors outside the Democratic National Convention in Chicago. They did not want to fire upon their own people. They could not reconcile being sent to another country to kill for their country only to be asked to return to kill their own. It made no sense. And gave voice to an unstated racism.

Though I know it's not quite the same thing, this sequence in Sir! No Sir! reminded me of the presidential response to the aftermath of Katrina and how accusations of racism once again resurfaced. Only this time instead of sending the National Guard in as they had at Chicago, at Kent State, the National Guard—which was so desperately needed at home—was pulled out to defend governmental interests elsewhere.

Another aspect of Sir! No Sir! that I liked was what I felt was its respectful attempt at gender parity. "Hanoi Jane" was great, possibly the best on-film performance I've seen out of Jane Fonda in many a year, but I was particularly intrigued with the voice of naval nurse Susan Schnall who was arrested for flying a small plane over several military bases here in the San Francisco Bay Area, dropping leaflets for the first demonstration of GIs and veterans against the war. "I remembered hearing about the B-52 bombers that were dropping leaflets on Vietnam urging the Vietnamese to defect," Schnall relates in the film, "And I thought well, if they can do it overseas…."

"Susan was great," Zeiger beamed, conceding that there were a lot fewer women in the service then than there are now. But Susan was bold and brave, wearing her uniform to a protest rally, for which she came under much fire. Like many others at the time, there was nothing that could stop her. Just as Keith Mather described: "I had nothing to lose, and I had no idea what was going to come. That's a free place. It's a really free place, you know? You don't know what's going to happen, you don't know where you're going, but you know what you're doing."

I teased Zeiger about the digitalized reconstruction of Schnall's leaflet drop. "No, no," he grinned, "they had a camera up there . . . " Actually, they had a lot of fun filming that sequence, using the sky as a blue screen, and dropping leaflets from the top of his bunker garage.

Zeiger paid strong attention to the underground press of the GI anti-war movement. I asked him if anything comparable was going on among servicemen in the current war. "The obvious answer is blogs," he answered, "and the Internet in Iraq." Only one of the many reasons why the Government wants to censor the Internet. Notwithstanding these modern marvels of communication, Zeiger waxes a bit nostaligic for the old methods, the mimeographed newsletters that were passed hand to hand around military bases. You would walk into your barracks and find them on your bed, in your locker. There is something visceral about that, which he misses, even as individuals he knew then that were cranking out newsletters, now do the same with daily weblasts. Certain political choices conjure aesthetic choices, I guess. "One must accomodate the times as one lives them," Stephen Sondheim has penned.

But I knew what Zeiger was saying. It's as if information has become entertainment and not the social call to action that it once was. I was struck by a comment Jane Fonda made in the documentary when she was remembering the soldiers at the FTA concerts. FTA was originally an acronym for Fun Travel and Adventure, the military's recruiting slogan for enlisting young men. Over time this morphed into Foxtrot Tango and Alpha or, decoded, Fuck the Army! Fonda was recalling looking out at the concert audience with those tens of thousands of GIs raising their fists and tossing the peace sign in solidarity with the anti-war cause. She wondered if it could even happen today. Zeiger chuckled pensively.

The lesson Zeiger tries to take from that is that movements of resistance seemingly come out of nowhere, they come out of an element of "total surprise" and that's where he gleans his optimism. You just never know. Maybe it could happen again. Maybe it is just as Faulkner wrote, "The past isn't dead; it isn't even past."

Coincidentally enough, the day before the interview I had gone out to the Balboa to catch a doublebill of Joyeux Noel and Sophie Scholl and the dirty word that came up out of those two films was conscience. I've long joked that if you ever want to get out of jury duty, and you've been chosen and are sitting in the box, wait until the judge asks if you can follow his or her instructions on the law, and then calmly respond, "That depends." When they ask what you mean, tell them you would have to follow your conscience first and foremost and—bingo!—you're out of there until next jury call. Why should it be that law, and the order it promises, seem so antithetical to conscience? Bertolt Brecht wrote in a poem:

General, man is very useful. He can fly and he can kill.
But he has one defect: He can think.

The structure of Zeiger's documentary begins with brave and individual voices who by the nature of their conscience are driven to act without any kind of support network. They were the tip of an oncoming wave.

Sir! No Sir! is equally engaging for its San Franciscan history. I was almost ashamed to admit I knew nothing about the "Nine for Peace" and the Presidio 27. The "Nine for Peace" were soldiers who refused their orders to Vietnam and took sanctuary in a San Franciscan church, chaining themselves to priests in support of their cause. The Presidio 27—which included the soldiers arrested from the "Nine for Peace"—were the prisoners in the Presidio stockade that staged a sitdown strike in protest of a guard's murder of a mentally-ill prisoner. "That was just like electrifying for the whole country!" Zeiger said and praised the local San Francisco television stations who have kept their coverage tapes of that time when most other stations long ago had either erased them or thrown them away. "That was a moment when there was a coming together of the San Francisco scene and the GIs," Zeiger summarizes.

I wondered if that had anything to do with the instigation of the urban myth about soldiers returning to the San Francisco airport and being spit upon by hippie anti-war protestors? Were they somehow trying to get back at San Francisco?

Zeiger was amused with the idea. He hadn't thought of it from that angle but, sure, absolutely. San Francisco—because it symbolized the counterculture—was a magnet for that kind of character assassination.

Finally, I commended Zieger on the documentary's music. Especially how he bookended the two pieces: the Shirelles innocently singing "Soldier Boy" and Rita Martinson soulfully singing her antiwar song at the FTA concerts. "Actually there's a third song that comes after her's," Zeiger corrected, one written specifically for the film bringing it up to current events. I'm always interested in music rights so I asked him if he'd had any problems securing "Soldier Boy" and he said no, that it had surprised him since he had been a little concerned about it, but he was granted license. It cost a pretty penny though. I didn't ask how much.

None of the music inbetween those bookend pieces is from the 60s, however, as most folks assume. A lot of people actually thought he had found all this instrumental music from the 60s but, no, it's all original music, meant to create the atmosphere of the time without pulling the viewer back into the time. At one point they had included "Maggie's Farm", a song that became almost an anthem for the Presidio 27, they sang it all the time; but—after trying it in the film—Zeiger realized suddenly that it pulled people out of the film into their own head and their own memories of that time. That's how strong music and some memories are so it became a challenge for Zeiger's composer to elicit the music of the time to position the filmgoer in a historical moment without having to depend explicitly upon any specific song.

I wrapped our conversation up by thanking Zeiger for rewriting history correctly. He laughed again and said, "Thank you!"

Sir! No Sir!, as mentioned above, will be part of a benefit screening next Thursday at the Grand Lake. But then opens for its official San Franciscan premiere at the Red Victorian April 7-13. I highly recommend it. It's an important reminder at a time when history is perilously repeating itself.