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Karina on SpoutBlog

  • Helen + Joy Review, Telluride 2008

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    Helen  (2009)

    Christine Molloy and Joe Lawlor, who screened short films at Telluride in 2005 and 2006, brought their debut full-length work to the festival this morning. The 74-minute Helen was preceded by Joy, a 9-minute short featuring some of the same actors, settings and situations, which Lawlor described before the screening as “a slightly more philosophical primer” for the feature. The filmmaking duo place both works within the context of their Civic Life series, “community-based” films cast with local non-performers, in which the socio-economic issues relevant to modern England and Ireland are improbably but successfully folded into a pure cinema marked by long traveling takes, atmosphere in place of action, and a notable economy of speech.

    In Joy, a female police officer faces the camera and explains that we’re watching a staged re-enactment of the disappearance of an 18 year old girl that will appear on local television, in the hopes of jogging the memory of anyone who might have seen a clue. As we watch Joy’s stand-in Helen (Annie Townsend) retrace steps through a park before disappearing into the woods, the cop’s voice-over explains how she calms the parents of a missing teenager by encouraging them to look at best case scenarios. Joy, she says, “might have been one of those young people who wanted to get lost.”

    The feature focuses on how and why Helen came to “play” Joy, and how the other girl’s absence left a gap amongst her friends and family waiting to be filled. Joy––who we never see, but are told Helen bears a striking physical resemblance to––came from a loving, upper middle-class home, played in a band and dated an attractive yuppie real estate agent. Helen has been living in the custody of the state since she was a child, spends her after school hours working as a maid in a hotel, and has never had close friends, let alone a boyfriend. Though their film is comprised mainly of long, contemplative shots of Helen transversing the landscapes of the city, her school, and the woods where Joy disappeared/the reenactment takes place, much of it set to the sound of Helen’s internal dialog with Joy, Molloy and Lawlor use these languid poetics to the service of a story about class passing. Helen clearly wants to emulate, if not out-and-out replace Joy in the lives of Joy’s parents and boyfriend, to suck up both the privilege and love that the lost girl left behind.

    But it’s not as Vertigo-esque as it might seem; as conveyed by her imagined messages to Joy, Helen is not a cynical opportunist, but a pragmatic (if semi-delusional) optimist. She convinces herself that the police officer is on to something, that Joy got lost on her own. She does move in on the other girl’s absence as the opportunity she’s been waiting for to correct her dreary lot, but does it as if pretending that she and Joy had a silent pact to help one another remake their lives.

    Helen is lovely to look at and ultimately compelling, but it does test patience, not least with its radically uneven performances. Though their casting process is usually fairly arbitrary (Molloy said before this morning’s screening that as a matter of course, “whoever turns up that day gets to be in the film”), for the first time Lawlor and Malloy held actual auditions to find a young woman to play the title role in Helen. Though Annie Townsend is no more a professional actress than any of Lawlor and Molloy’s collaborators (she’s actually a player on Newcastle United’s ladies football team), it’s her remarkably naturalistic, bizarrely seductive performance that breaks through the static of Helen’s sorely untrained cast, sleepy pacing and mildly too-futuristic premise, to really make the film something special.

    A question/quibble: Lawlor noted before the screening that the decision to screen Joy and Helen together was made by the festival, and that the filmmakers had not necessarily intended for the works to be seen consecutively. Maybe two of Joy’s nine minutes are incorporated directly into Helen; one assumes that the rest stands alone because the filmmakers didn’t want the feature to depict the re-enactment literally, and the film is probably more haunting for it. But as long as that literal re-enactment exists, would it really be preferable to see the two films playing at the same festival apart?


    Originally posted on:SpoutBlog » Karina Longworth

  • Benjamin Button Backlash? Telluride 2008

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful. [What do you think?]
    Under discussion:

    It has come to my attention, via the Rope of Silicon post and SpoutBlog commenter Gould, that there is bad buzz in Telluride surrounding David Fincher’s The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. I’m in Telluride, and I hadn’t heard this bad buzz––the handful of people I’ve spoken to who saw the show reel either last night or this morning had generally positive things to day, aside from some general skepticism as to what the film’s reported two and a half hour final cut will look and feel and play like.

    As I responded to Gould’s comment on this post:

    …it’s hard to tell from this reel whether or not the film is going to hold together. I don’t get the sense that he’s going for whimsy or magical realism, but it does seem like a real departure for Fincher. Hopefully the fanboys looking for another Fight Club won’t burn Fincher at the stake for branching out a bit.

    Telluride is not like, say, Comic-Con; the crowd doesn’t boo or scream, and most attendees are less likely to walk out of a screening with a firmly settled opinion than they are to spend the rest of the weekend talking it out. This doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m right and the naysayers are wrong, but I do hope this movie doesn’t get a leg cut off before the picture’s locked thanks to the entire internet jumping to conclusions.


    Originally posted on:SpoutBlog » Karina Longworth

  • Prodigal Sons Review, Telluride 2008

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    Prodigal Sons aroused a bit of a frenzy in Telluride leading up to its first screening on Friday––with a line around the block an hour before the screening, many pass holders were turned away––and no doubt in part due to the Orson Welles factor. As per the Festival program notes, in the film director Kimberly Reed, who “once was a male named Paul,” revisits her “tumultuous relationship” with her adopted brother Marc “and chronicles Marc’s discovery: he is the grandson of Orson Welles and Rita Hayworth.”

    But Sons is hardly the exploration of starry ancestry that the logline might lead you to believe, at least not in much of a direct way. Though Reed does travel with Marc to Croatia, where he appears in another documentary and bonds with Welles’ ex-girlfriend Oja Kodar, ultimately she’s less concerned with Marc’s geneology than in his unlikely status as anti-social “other” in a family in which he’s the only sibling without an LGBT identification.

    We’re told that Kim and Marc have been estranged for ten years before Kim decides to head back to their Montana home town to introduce her relatively new, female self at her 20 year high school reunion. (Assuming there’d be a story in her homecoming, Reed hired producer/cinematographer  John Keitel to travel with her to Montana for the reunion, and the project just kept going.) Less than a year the former Paul’s senior, Marc insists he was “popular” in high school, but he couldn’t hold a candle to his then-brother, the co-captain of the football team and in general the classic specimen of the all-American teenage boy. Marc’s resentment has continued into near-middle age, even as his brother has become his sister and has sought to kill all vestiges of her male past. But her former, seemingly ideal masculine self won’t die so easily. As she puts it, she and her brother are “haunted by the same ghost.”

    From certain angles, the all-grown-up Mark is the splitting image of his grandpa–if his grandpa was a modern day, middle-American lump in a too-tight wife beater, fanny pack and shorts, with a receding hairline no longer quite obscuring the scar of a massive head injury incurred via an accident incurred during celebration of his 21st birthday. There are intimations that Marc was difficult before his accident––that he constantly sought attention, that he felt frustrated and anxious over his inability to be like Paul––but by the time we check in, things seem to have become much worse.

    Even on meds, Marc flips back and forth between irrational (and sometimes violent) rage, and self-pitying contrition. Eventually, after a number of scary incidents (most captured via quaking handheld camera, sometimes with the action just outside the frame because the person shooting is actually being threatened or assaulted), Kim gets involved in trying to get her brother medical help, but one wonders why an intervention took so long. Even if Kim wasn’t around to see her brother’s deterioration, didn’t his wife, mother or other brother ever feel the effects?

    It would be fascinating if the answer to that question was the stuff of a 1930s horror movie––that something went horribly wrong when the great beauty Hayworth and the genius Welles mated, and 50 years later, their union somehow led to major dysfunction in an otherwise happy Montana family––a rising of old Hollywood’s repressed sins in the Heartland!

    Unfortunately, in reality, Marc’s blood relations were/are only incidental to his problems as an adult, and Reed’s handling of his heritage in relation to his wider issues is not particularly purposeful or focused. Most frustrating, she allows Marc’s bloodline to pop up as a possible salve to his sickness, without examining how it might actually be responsible when miracles fail to take hold. Reed’s most successful when she’s allowing the Welles relation to just hang in the air as supporting evidence to her family’s structuring irony: as a high school jock and valedictorian turned extremely well-adjusted transgender lesbian, she’s moved through life with incredible ease compared to her adopted brother, whose Hollywood DNA couldn’t protect him from severe mental illness.

    Prodigal Sons ultimately falls into the unfortunate trap of so many post-digital personal documentaries: it’s an Everybody Has One movie. Everyone has one tragic/triumphant story that, if shaped correctly, could make sufficient fodder for a film––but that doesn’t mean that everyone is a filmmaker. Best case scenario, Everybody Has Ones serve as calling cards for a filmmaker’s storytelling capabilities and aesthetic sensibilities. In this case, Reed’s autobiographical portrait has its fair share of meaty bits, but it suffers from both the director/producer/star’s lack of perspective on the material, and a general indifference to craft from both Reed and her cameraman/producer. It takes a certain type of personality to put one’s most painful moments on film; unfortunately this type of personality is not necessarily compatible with filmmaking acumen.


    Originally posted on:SpoutBlog » Karina Longworth

  • The Curious Case of Benjamin Button Preview, Telluride 2008

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    Tonight’s Silver Medallion Tribute to David Fincher at the Telluride Film Festival closed with a screening of 20 minutes of Fincher’s much-anticipated new film, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, starring Brad Pitt as a baby born old who reverse-ages over eight decades. Fincher called the footage “a series of scenelets,” meaning that, unlike the single reel of There Will Be Blood shown at last year’s tribute to Daniel Day-Lewis, this reel was cut together to give us a teasing glimpse of the wider narrative and scope of the film.

    First impression: it’s impressive. It’s absolutely gorgeous, for starters. Coming as it did after a show reel featuring excerpts from Fincher’s music videos and adverts (both cut into a montage set to “How Soon is Now?” by The Smiths, weirdly and unadvisedly divorcing both pop and product promos from what they were made to promote) and each of his features aside from Alien³, it’s clear that Fincher has moved beyond the cool blacks and blues with florescent highlights that have thus far defined his visual style. It’s a period epic, so the broader visual palette makes sense, but it came as a relief that, within all this beauty, the effects used to transform Pitt first into an 80-year-old man and then backwards into a child felt of a piece and not overwhelmingly effect-y.

    Also exciting: though the reel gives every hint that Button is a proper epic tearjerker about love and pain and time and blah blah blah, it’s also infused with the dry, quippy sense of humor that cuts through the darkest swatches of Fincher’s filmography. This is, after all, the man who says he wanted to make Fight Club because he thought the book was “hilarious [and] ridiculous. But I’m an asshole.”

    A detailed run-down of the clip follows after the jump. Not having seen the full film, I can’t say for sure whether or not there are spoilers, so I suppose if you want to know absolutely nothing, don’t click.

    We open on an aged Cate Blanchett in a hospital bed. Her 30-something daughter is sitting by her side, reading aloud from a book. It’s someone’s will. She reads, “All I have is my story, and I’m writing it while I still remember it.”

    Brad Pitt’s voice takes over as we fade to an end-of-WWI party on the streets of New Orleans. A man runs up the stairs of a mansion, where a doctor and a number of servants tend to a woman covered in a bloody sheet. She’s just given birth and she’s dying. The man runs to her side, and she cries, “Promise me he’ll have a place.” Pitt’s VO: “She gave her life for me, and for that I am forever grateful.”

    The baby is crying, and the dad approaches the cradle. He looks down at the baby and gags. We don’t see anything. He grabs the baby, wrapped in a blanket, and runs down the stairs and out the door as the other people in the room call after him. He approaches the back steps of another house, places the baby on a bottom step, sticks a wad of money under the blanket, and sneaks off. A black man and woman walk out the back door of the house and start flirting. The man, walking backwards down the steps, leads the woman by the hand. They trip over the baby. We get a quick close-up of what’s in the blanket: it’s normal baby-sized, but with grotesquely wrinkled skin. “The Lord done something awful here,” the man says, and books it.

    The woman takes the baby inside the house, which appears to be a retirement home where she works. A doctor examines the baby and says, “Shows all the deterioration of a man on the way to the grave.” The woman lies and says the baby was her sister’s, and that the sister had an infection and “the baby got the worst of it. He came out white.” The doctor tells the woman–named Queenie–that “some babies aren’t meant to survive.” She says this baby is a miracle, and takes it into the parlor to introduce it to the old folks. An older white woman says she knows how to cure any baby, and comes over to take a look. “he looks just like my ex-husband,” she says.

    Queenie takes the baby, now aged to what appears to be a very old, wheelchair-bound man, to revival service in a tent. At this point, Benjamin doesn’t quite look like Brad Pitt underneath the prosthetic wrinkles, liver spots, etc, but some of Pitt’s mannerisms shine through, and in close-ups, you can’t mistake his eyes. The preacher asks him how old he is. He croaks, “Seven, but I look a lot older.” The preacher does his cast-the-devil-out thing and tells Benjamin to get up and walk. He stands out of his wheelchair, and falls down.

    Cut to Benjamin, looking a bit younger but still very much an old man, at the steer of a ship. A drunk sailor asks, “You been on this earth so many years, and you never had a woman?” They go to a brothel. Girls are lined up on the stairs, whispering about how they don’t like the looks of the old guy. A redhead offers to take Benjamin upstairs. Cut to her moaning–Benjamin’s apparently enjoying some kind of beginner’s luck––and cracking, “What are you, Dick Tracy or something?” As he walks out, his voiceover informs us that this is where he learned the value of having an income. As he disappears into the night, his father pops into the frame––he’s seen his son.

    Cut to Cate Blanchett, younged-up, at a ballet audition. She has red hair, too, but she’s not the hooker. Still, if it was explained in this reel how she and Benjamin know each other, I missed it.

    Cut to Benjamin and his drunk friend, back on the boat, in a blizzard. Benjamin is looking younger, and the drunk asks him what his secret is. Benjamin says, “Well, you do drink an awful lot.”

    Cut back to aged Cate in her bed. Her daughter has found a postcard from Benjamin, and is asking if her mom was in love with him. Cut to young Cate, reading the postcard.

    Now Tilda Swinton, in a black fur coat, is waiting in the deserted dining room of wherever Benjamin is staying. She’s a redhead, too, which by this point means we know she’s going to take a liking to Benjamin. He comes downstairs in a bathrobe over pajamas–he looks about 60 now, is unmistakenly Brad Pitt, just silver foxed-up quite a bit. TIlda teaches him about caviar and vodka. Tilda tells him she tried to swim the English Channel when she was young, but failed, and never ended up doing anything with her life. He touches her hand on the table, and she leans in to kiss him. A clock strikes. “I’m afraid of the witching hour,” she says, and runs off. “it was the first time a woman ever kissed me,” says V.O. Benjamin. “It’s something you never forget.”

    On the ship, at night. “The war finally caught up with us,” V.O. Benjamin says. A wide shot of the sea, full of black blobs–bodies.

    “It was May 1965. I was 26 years old. I came home.” Benjamin returns to Queenie’s house. She’s delighted to see him; her daughter doesn’t recognize him. Queenie tells him they’re gonna find him a wife and a job.

    Cate Blanchett is suddenly outside. Benjamin greets her, but she doesn’t recognize him. Then she does.

    They go for a walk in the moonlight, and Cate’s going on and on about how wild her life is up in New York. She tells Benjamin she’s leaving the next day. She takes off her shoes, then her coat. She starts dancing for him, her body (or her double’s body) silhouetted against a cloud of steam. If it wasn’t obvious that this was a seduction, she then asks him if he’s ever read D. H. Lawrence. She coos, “He was banned, for using words like ‘making love.’” As she continues to babble and contort her body, Benjamin just watches from afar. “In our company,” she says, “We have to trust each other. Sex is part of it.”

    She starts telling him about how a lesbian dancer made the moves on her. He says he’s not surprised that people find her attractive. She literally crawls over to him, pauses with her face an inch away from his as if waiting for him to make the move, and then kisses her anyway. He tells her he’ll disappoint her. She tells him she’s been with plenty of older dudes. She tries again. “Not tonight, is all,” he says, more firmly. She collects her things and walks off.


    Originally posted on:SpoutBlog » Karina Longworth

 


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