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Karina on SpoutBlog

  • LAFF 2009: PASSENGER SIDE, Michael Jackson and nostalgia

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    Maybe it’s not fair for me to begin the review of a festival film with a lengthy digression on nostalgia and the death of Michael Jackson, but somehow all of these things seem to point in the same direction (and geographically speaking, despite the connection to Westwood). So please, bear with me:

    The Associated Press published an editorial this morning by Ted Anthony, titled “2 lost icons: For Generation X, a really bad day.” In it, he assesses the impact of the near-simultaneous deaths of Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson on the segment of the population who were at their most demographically desirably in the late 80s-early 90s. He attributes the following portentous quote to a 38-year-old HBO employee:

    “This,” he said, “is the moment when Generation X realizes they’re grown up.”

    Thanks to this article and others, “Generation X” has been bopping around Google’s Top 100 search terms all day. Which is funny, because I can’t remember the last time I even thought about the concept of Generation X … before earlier this week, when I watched Passenger Side, Matt Bissonnette’s third feature and an entry in the Los Angeles Film Festival’s Narrative Competition. Starring the director’s brother Joel Bissonnette and Adam Scott as two brothers (one a struggling novelist with an aversion to modern technology, the other a personable recovering junkie) who spend a day driving around Southern California looking for the ex-girlfriend who one of them wants to marry, Passenger Side also seems to have that age group’s reconciliation of age and nostalgia for a simpler time on its mind.

    With its wall-to-wall soundtrack of early 90s college radio hits (Silver Jews, Superchunk, Guided by Voices) and plot that only makes sense thanks to a complete absence of cell phones and internet, Passenger Side plays like a lost classic of the post-Slacker era. Not announced as a period piece, barring the appearance of an aged Greg Dulli Passenger Side nonetheless feels like the product of another time. Whether this works for you or not may depend in no small part on your attachment to that time, but from the style of conversational banter between the brothers (in the spaces around the not-always-successful roadtrip comic setpieces, the screenplay works as a study of how, if a conversation lasts long enough, deadpan sarcasm eventually gives way to introspection and confession) to the odd but gorgeously warm-toned rear projection effect on the driving scenes, the film’s aesthetics are extremely appealing.

    Nostalgia, and the cynicism that tends to sandwich it, is cyclical. It took the death of American popular culture’s biggest and most problematic icon to get MTV to revert to playing music videos; surely, I’m not the only one who found herself up way past her bedtime last night, not wanting to turn the channel off for fear that the transformation would be over by morning. It wasn’t — the channel announced plans to keep the marathon going until at least 8pm EST, thus creating a 24 hour respite from the game shows and slick unscripted dramas that have become their programming staples — but by afternoon, after the aesthetic highs of “Beat It” and “Scream” had given way to schmaltz and self-deification of the later Jackson videos, exemplified by the Free Willy tie-in “Will You Be There” and the Garden of Eden allusions of “You Are Not Alone.” It could be that sincere nostalgia is only possible as a knee jerk reaction; if we push it hard enough and/or long enough, chances are our warm, halcyonic memories will spoil and sour.

    And this is something like the experience of watching Passenger Side: the nostalgia it evokes — for music, for the experience of having to physically look for something rather than virtually search for it, for the concept of conversation unmitigated by technological distraction — is palpable and powerful. But there’s nowhere to go from this high other than down, and in one of its last scenes, Passenger Side sinks its slice-of-life-looseness in a “gotcha!” plot twist. Like the nostalgia tour pop culture seems to have taken over the past 24 hours, I wish Passenger Side had ended while still ahead, but I appreciate having taken the ride.


    Originally posted on:SpoutBlog » Karina Longworth

  • THE HURT LOCKER & Kathryn Bigelow’s Girl Problem

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    This piece was originally published in March during the AFI Dallas Film Festival. The Hurt Locker opens in select theaters today.

    When I was finishing my BFA in the Film Department at the San Francisco Art Institute in the early 00s, Kathryn Bigelow was the school’s most famous filmmaker alum, despite the fact that she matriculated at SFAI as a painter (she studied filmmaking as a graduate student at Columbia after a stint in the Independent Study program at the Whitney Museum). The work of the woman who made Point Break and Strange Days wasn’t exactly part of the curriculum of the then fine art-focused (sometimes to a fault) Film program at SFAI, where Hollywood film was rarely considered worthy of scrutiny; those who did readily embrace her success as part of the school’s pedigree often named glass ceiling smashing as Bigelow’s greatest achievement — as if to say, “Yes, she makes mainly action and genre blockbusters with big name stars, but she’s a woman, so that makes her subversive.” The argument that Bigelow’s work is somehow subversive just because she has a vagina is not only ludicrous, but unnecessary, being that her films are actually subversive. Marked by moral ambiguity, insistently complicating easy distinctions between good and evil, using Bigelow’s patented point-of-view camera to implicate the viewer in the dark worlds and questionable choices of her subjects, her films literally subvert the viewer’s expectations dictated by genre.

    And yet the “good for a girl” backhanded praise continues to dog her. At the Q & A after a screening of The Hurt Locker at AFI Dallas, moderator Gary Cogill commented that his favorite book about the Iraq war was written by a woman (The Long Road Home by Martha Raddatz) and then asked Bigelow a question that essentially amounted to, “Isn’t weird that The Hurt Locker is so good, since you’re a girl?” Bigelow deflected the question, but the issue came up again when an audience member who introduced herself as a member of Women in Film gushed that it’s “almost miraculous” that Bigelow has “embedded” herself in the making of “big boys movies.” This is when I decided it was time to leave; as i made my way out, I heard Bigelow respond that he choice of material is chiefly “instinctual” and not motivated by a desire to step where she supposedly doesn’t belong by virtue of chromosomal difference.

    That the conversation surrounding Bigelow’s work seems to consistently get stuck in the mud of gender politics is all the more tragic in the case of The Hurt Locker, a film of such complex construction and complicated values that it should be able to sustain much deeper inquiry than what it feels like for a girl. If anything, it’s a film that bears the mark of a painter, full of deceptively beautiful imagery masking multiple layers of meaning.

    The story of a three-man IED dismantling crew’s final month in rotation in Baghdad circa 2004, Locker is less a linear story than a character study threaded with increasingly hard-to-bear tension and punctuated, with no predictable rhythm, by bursts of violence and fire. The explosions in the film carry an unusual beauty, one which inspires its own tangle of questions. Since its Toronto premiere, there’s been much talk that The Hurt Locker is the first apolitical Iraq film; at the Q & A, Cogill praised it for “not trying to beat us to death with message”, to which writer Mark Boal responded, “Fact is, when you’re standing over a bomb, you might know about geo-global politics or the price of oil, but you’re not thinking about it.” But the audience may not be able to abandon such thoughts so easily, and Bigelow plays with this. She’s not afraid to fetishize lethal, politically motivated explosions, to invite us to take visual and even emotional pleasure in a screen filling with fire in a way that no film about this conflict has dared.

    There’s a likely reason for other auteurs’ reticence: as a media event, 9/11 made the taking of pleasure in cinematic imagery of politically motivated destruction a tricky business. Shooting digitally with multiple cameras with virtually verite immediacy, Bigelow even seemingly reappropriates the “techniques” that mark the news network’s image blankets of disasters like 9/11: zooms, devastating slow motion, the jerk of a hand held camera finding its unexpected subject. Bigelow’s confidence that the audience is psychologically ready to enjoy imagery of bombs detonating in the context of our real life fight taken under the pretense of preventing another terrorist attack *is* a political statement, if not an ideological one. Its characters may not be thinking about politics within the space of their work, but The Hurt Locker is nothing if not a work of political engagement.


    Originally posted on:SpoutBlog » Karina Longworth

 


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