Wicked Fun

Under discussion:

Apocalypse Now  (1979)

In what must be one of the first documentaries to deal with the actual experience of American soldiers involved in the Iraqi war (I imagine more will follow) Michael Tucker and Petra Epperlein’s Gunner Palace is, in its way, a triumph of understatement. It is not a great film by any means, but it is intriguing, engaging, and more than a little troubling. Tucker lived with the soldiers, bunking with them in the bombed out Azimiya Palace, last occupied by Uday Hussein and built by Saddam Hussein. It was in many ways the perfect venue, in the heart of Baghdad, Adhamiya. Following the conventional wisdom that “less is more” Tucker takes an almost parenthetical approach to the lives of the soldiers of 2/3 Field Artillery, showing us what happens before and after raids and skirmishes get really violent and disturbing, and the downtimes when the soldiers are relaxing, reflecting and taking time out for some rest and recreation. We see them swimming, golfing, partying, playing the guitar, fixing a Humvee, breaking down doors, and trying to kill a rat. Several of the soldiers use rapping to sort out their feelings and blow off steam. Their off-the-cuff candor is strangely moving, and I think, at the heart of Gunner Palace’s strategy.

It’s not unusual, I suppose, for a documentary (or many theatrical films, for that matter) to find a dry, matter-of-fact tone, but Gunner Palace is something else again. From the outset a soldier makes an analogy between the current craze for reality shows and the truth of their perilous, day- to-day existence, and it’s as if Tucker were trying to replicate the dull, trance-inducing technique of television broadcasting. Needless to say, this sort of wry, imitative spin is not without its hazards. The responsibility pretty much falls on the audience to figure out why, or the significance behind this kind of studied artlessness. I’m not saying its bad, but sometimes Gunner Palace can be fairly listless, and I’m not sure if the folks who need to will grasp the irony of Americans who gauge the world primarily through a television camera and subsequently, the entertainment value of The Iraqi War or its lack thereof. More than one soldier comments on the ongoing debate over U.S. war in Iraq by folks who have no genuine investment in the outcome or casualties, only the need to advance personal ideologies. Gunner Palace’s greatest strength is its documentation of the thoughts and attitudes of the soldiers themselves.

Gunner Palace does not try to suggest our soldiers are not heroes, and perhaps their heroism is evinced in their calm, unfazed behavior. When asked if they ever take attacks personally, an officer explains that doing so would only make them less effective. They are definitely not cavalier, but we are struck by the demeanor of the soldiers, which is that of men and women only there to do a job. And I don’t mean cool affectation or restrained bravado (though Tucker’s approach is all about restraint) there’s really no hint that they desire glory or citation. Tucker chooses a number of different soldiers to follow and we get to know them as the film advances, seeing them as they go through their routines. It’s alarming when they describe how some Iraqis welcome and others despise them. How a group of adoring Iraqi children might include an assassin or insurrectionist. And while they don’t like the hostility and ambivalence of the Iraqi people they take it in stride. They never seem enraged or overwhelmed even though they are surrounded 24/7 by imminent danger. And they’re very comfortable with their feelings.

As with many competent, compelling documentary films, Tucker probably got a leg up by living with the soldiers, facilitating their spontaneity and comfort. By making them seem ordinary he ratchets up their eloquence, without plucking at our heartstrings the way Capra might have. En route to an attack, Wagner’s Flight of the Valkyries plays, in wry contrast to the exhilarating helicopter formation in Coppola’s Apocalypse Now. No aggression or megalomania here. Time Magazine honors them as “Persons of the Year” but the awards are in some cases posthumous. When “characters” we’ve become attached to die, it’s sorrowful because we never see the reactions of others. Their deaths are diminished by the distortion of protocol and media spin. When a couple of the soldiers, without a trace of passion or pontification are unwilling to justify the taking of another human being’s life, when one of them says, he can’t think of a single time in history when anything good was accomplished by one person killing another, the effect, in its quiet way, is stunning.

Under discussion:

Born Into Brothels  (2003)

Zana Briski’s and Ross Kauffman’s Born into Brothels is, in my reckoning, a quiet miracle. A feature length documentary that follows and transforms the lives of seven children, growing up in the squalid red light district of Sonagchi, Calcutta. Carefully avoiding bathos and melodrama Briski and Kauffman pull us deeply into the everyday existence of these kids: the verbal abuse and beatings, the drug addiction and atrocities,the desperation and impoverishment, the rage and apathy that perpetuate their misery. And, strangely enough, interwoven throughout are the childish games, silent ordinary beauty and bubbling enthusiasm they share with other children. Corny as it sounds (and Born into Brothels is anything but corny) one of the film’s most powerful revelations is that for all their earthy-wisdom, these kids retain their youthful energy despite their harrowing circumstances. They toil and suffer; steadfast and philosophical when they must be, inured to their surroundings to a large degree (how else would they subsist?)but when given the chance, they revel in their capacity to love the world. One of the film’s most haunting images, a photograph of one of the girls posed provocatively in front of a car, is so unnerving, because, of course, it functions as a ghost of what the future may hold. We’ve all seen little girls playing dress-up, but even in comparison to the creepy creepy shots we’ve seen from infant beauty pageants this picture is disturbing. But not in a garish, lurid way. Zana Briski is far too professional and respectful for that.

The documentary, in fact is predicated upon the loving relationship between Briski and her seven photographer proteges, including: Avigit, Gour, Puja, Shanti, Kochi and Manik. In a moment of serendipitous inspiration, Briski decides to invite the children to a photography class, handing out cameras to each and training them. She realises the kids will have access she cannot begin to tap, and being young have a certain amount of chutzpah that enables them to just walk up and photograph someone, not caring if it angers or offends them. Like so many aspects of the film, their nerve is a double-edged sword, facilitated by their low tier in the notorious caste system. We are horrified by so many details of their environment, but they persevere, cameras at the ready. And how astonishing they are, even if we take into account that some photos were probably sifted out, the radiance and audacity and clear-eyed authenticity of the shots they take are mind-boggling. The film is jammed with distinctive, poignant imagery. A boy flying a kite from the roof of a tenement, a girl gazing quietly out the window of a bus, the children egging on the driver in a spontaneous taxi race, grown men ogling a young girl. It’s very touching that a professional photographer would move to India for two years and be willing to share her task, in the process opening up the world for her subjects. Not only do thy love what they’re doing but they take it very seriously. Though it’s hard not to get a kick when she chides one of the boys (they all call her “Auntie Zana”) for wasting two rolls of film by shooting at night without a flash. He makes one of those faces only a youngster can and says something like, “I was so absolutely confused.” These moments of opulent humanity are a grace.

Despite differing levels of resignation, the children know they must get education and away from their homes if they are to escape a demeaning future. One of the older girls is already getting nagged by her aunt to “join the line” an image all too easily attached to street-walkers in America, and probably everywhere else. Briski makes it her mission to get them into boarding schools, fighting the convoluted documentation system, ignorance, intolerance and blase’ attitude of parents, relatives, teachers, clerks, government officials and nuns (!?). You’d think the Brides of Christ capable of more altruism. One of Briski’s great strengths was her willingness (if I’m reading it right) to improvise and follow the path on which this project must have lead her. Eventually the photographs they took became part of an exhibition in which the children participated,traveling to New York and earning money to facilitate their own emancipation. It’s a privilege to witness the unfolding of this journey and watch them savoring excitement and engaging vistas as only children can. And Born into Brothels isn’t one of those pitches for children as cosmic shamans in small. We understand the devastation of their predicament but Briski doesn’t milk it. She embraces her subjects with sober, practical optimism, the kind that heals even if it doesn’t necessarily fix everything.