I celebrated the new year by proofing a final mock-up of my Spring arthouse calendar film series program. It will screen about 50 films. Some new. Some old. The selection usually nets an equal amount of praise and criticism. I put out a sneak preview of coming attractions on my FaceBook page the other day and within a few minutes received one enthusiastic remark from a reader looking forward to the latest Steven Soderbergh documentary about Spalding Gray (that one called And Everything Is Going Fine) while simultaneously getting one smack-down from a reader wanting to know why I won’t be screening González Iñárritu’s Biutiful, or Charles’ Ferguson’s excellent documentary regarding the details of our recent financial collapse, Inside Job, or even something so obviously winning as L’illusionist, which displays the latest animation of Sylvain Chomet of The Triplets of Belleville fame – especially as it is working from an unpublished screenplay by Jacques Tati. What could be more perfect for an arthouse theater? For those curious how this particular film curator made his final choices, here are my answers.
A little background: In one week, I’ll have 25,000 schedules to distribute. When it arrives from the printers, I’ll invariably hack open a box from the first shipment, reach in, grab a freshly minted program, and within .03 seconds spot a glaring typo – and it won’t be my printer’s fault (they – unlike me – are consummate professionals who have done everything in their power to prevent this). Nope, the buck stops at my desk. It should, anyway. But I’m a sloppy guy and I make a lot of mistakes and this typo now in front of me will have somehow escaped the detection of the half-dozen people who helped me proofread the damn thing back when we had all the time in the world to peruse it line-by-line. And who am I kidding? There won’t be just one. There will be many. But that’s okay, I’ll still be as proud as can be. That’s because, unlike any chain theater whose programming is dictated by the bottom-line or committee, I’m a non-profit and, furthermore, in the enviable position of being the only programmer calling all the shots. There’s no question who the father is – this is my baby, warts and all.
I kick things off on January 26th with The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest (dir. by Daniel Afredson, 2009), and this despite the fact that it comes out on DVD the day before. Once a film is widely available on DVD, that cuts my attendance numbers by over half, and I usually avoid it when showing newer titles. The venue I screen films in has 400 seats, so the difference between a sold-out show and one scarcely attended is huge. But in this case I’ve already screened the other two films in Stieg Larsson’s very popular trilogy, and since admission to my series is half the rate being charged at other theaters I’m still providing a service for the budget-minded folks out there who purposefully missed it at the multiplex. Also insofar as this trilogy is concerned; we have bragging rights to having given The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo its Colorado premiere. A big “thank you” to Music Box Films for that feather in our cap. Those sold-out shows gave me the freedom to program other more obscure films that I knew would lose money but still deserved to be seen on the big screen. As a non-profit I don’t have to make a lot of money to function, but I can’t lose too much either – so it’s important to have a few high-profile performers to help subsidize the repertory and off-the-beaten track titles that don’t usually pack ‘em in. That’s the other reason I’m leading the Spring series with this title; most of the films on my program don’t have any multi-million dollar publicity campaigns behind them to boost public awareness, so best to put something up front that people will recognize and draw attention to itself. It’s a good way to prime the pump as we get back from a holiday hiatus.
The Sundance Shorts package is a collection of nine shorts that have been culled from the 2010 Sundance Film Festival. This year, the Sundance Film Festival takes place between Jan. 20 – 30, so I thought it’d be appropriate to highlight this shorts package from last year at a time that overlaps with the current festival. I normally only give a title one or two days on my program so that I can cram in as many other films in as possible, but this is a rare case where the money due to the filmmakers is divided amongst all nine of them equally. That extra day will help increase the box office tally being split by these young filmmakers. Also, on a Sundance-related note, I usually attend the first half of the festival and, after watching four or five films a day it’ll be nice to give my eyes a small break when I return. I’ve already seen this collection of shorts, so timing their screening with my return means having three extra nights to catch up on emails and laundry.
BLACK & WHITE MAGIC ON SUNDAYS! As I wrote in my program notes, over the years I’ve purchased a lot of my favorite films on DVD. Most of them are still wrapped in their cellophane. Why? Because by watching it on DVD I knew I’d be cheating myself of their reel magic. This Spring calendar I’ve decided to dedicate Sunday to some of these titles. The first half are film noirs, the second half are enigmatic, haunting, or somehow infused with the fantastic. All of these Sunday films make incredible use of black-and-white cinematography, and all of these Sunday films are on 35mm film.
I just saw the Coen Brother’s True Grit at the theater via digital projection. It was beautiful. No scratches. Crisp. In focus. The audience loved it. So did I. But the black spectrum of color, for me, still lacks the nuance of 35mm film. It was a solid and inky black, rather than a graduated and nuanced black that felt alive within its shadows. It was the difference between a counterfeit Mona Lisa and “the real deal.” I’m amongst a shrinking handful of people who care about such things, but for those shrinking handful I dedicate every Sunday of my Spring program, and I kick thinks off with The Killers (dir. by Robert Siodmak, and starring Burt Lancaster and Ava Gardner). Grubby hotels, sleazy nightclubs, shadowy, dark, expressionistic lighting… On actual film it’s like walking out under a full moon and seeing the landscape all dreamy and surreal-like – a format portal that gets you as close to the real thing as possible.
Digital Projection? It looks awesome, it’s here to stay, and it will soon eclipse the heavy, expensive, and easy-to-scratch celluloid prints of the past. But a small part of your brain will be asleep during the proceedings. It’s a small but important part of your brain that is connected with intuition. For me, that slumber is awakened by a pure image of reflected light, be it from a time long past or recent – it’s still the closest I can come to time travel. This does not yet exist for me in the digital realm but, again, I’m in a rapidly shrinking minority of people who still think of such things. In True Grit a horse is spurred on to its death for the purpose of saving the protagonist. In my case, I’ll keep beating that horse long after it’s dead because, well, I loved it too much to believe it would ever stop transporting me to new places. Or perhaps I should put it this way; as long as I own my own damn horse, I’ll take care of it for as long as nature allows. Coincidentally, the nearby Landmark Theatres will also be screening some film noirs around the same time, with a focus on Orson Welles, but this thematic “film festival” is really a “digital series” void of celluloid and mostly on Blu-Ray.
I have a confession for this week’s programming selection: I’ve only seen William S. Burroughs: A Man Within (dir. by Yony Leyser, 2010). The three that follow I’ve only read reviews for or heard about via trusted sources. Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives (dir. by Apichatopong Weerasethakul, 2010) was the winner of the Cannes Film Festival 2010 Palm d’Or and is a tribute to local Thai myths with a whimsical narrative that embraces a leisurely and non-linear structure. Those who accept it on its own terms will be rewarded with something very unusual while a majority will probably leave scratching their heads – and that’s okay. I have to be honest, Inspector Bellamy (dir. by Claude Chabrol, 2009) normally would not have made the cut as it comes out on DVD two weeks prior to my screening. But as this was Chabrol’s 50th and last film before passing away, I felt the old maestro deserved a nod on the schedule. As to The Man from London (dir. by Bela Tarr, 2007), this had to to with the fact that when I think of magical black-and-white films, Tarr’s Werckmeister Harmonies ranks there at my very top for pure celluloid bliss. This last film by the cantankerous Hungarian garnered mixed reviews, but the only way I would ever see a Tarr film is on 35mm, so given that it’s both in black-and-white and billed as a modern noir I selfishly figured this was as good a chance as any to finally see it on film myself.
The week of President’s Day Weekend is always a bit tricky because that’s also when the Boulder International Film Festival sets up shop one mile away from us for its for its yearly and four-day event. BIFF is very successful, has no problems packing its venues, and always gets a lion’s share of the local publicity. That being said, most of their screenings are digitally projected and they rarely, if ever, show repertory. In contrast, most of my offerings are on film and I always give a fair shake to the classics. I also charge much lower admission and offer up screenings throughout the year, so we’re very different animals. I start things off with two very powerful docs, A Film Unfinished (dir. by Yael Hersonski, 2010) and Last Train Home (dir. by Lixin Fan, 2009). These two films are of the sort that might have screened at BIFF, but I show them on film, and I show them early on. When BIFF is in full swing I go with a cinematic kick in the nuts: Enter the Void (dir. by Gaspar Noe, 2009). Noe has long embraced a drug-fueled misanthropy that assaults its audience in many ways, and there are many people who will (and should) avoid him like the plague. But the fact remains: Enter the Void is one of the most visually audacious films to ever sizzle through the human synapses and fry the cerebral cortex. Last year BIFF‘s opening night film was The Lightkeepers (dir. by Daniel Adams, 2009) – and I cannot think of a more diametrically opposite film to this than Enter the Void – its opening credit sequence alone would give Blythe Danner a heart-attack. As BIFF winds down with closing night ceremonies, I also wind down the week with the 1998 restoration of Touch of Evil (dir. by Orson Welles, 1958), a repertory bit of programming that won’t step on BIFF‘s toes in any way and which I’ve been wanting to revisit for a long time coming.
Next up: a restored Godard print, some U.K. comedy, Spalding Gray, and my favorite Jim Jarmusch film. Every Man for Himself (dir. by Jean-Luc Godard, 1980) is enjoying a new 35mm print courtesy of a The Film Desk, a small distributor who has taken up the clarion call of keeping great and interesting arthouse titles alive on film. Gotta support ‘em, plus Godard still (!) brings in both the young and old. Four Lions (dir. by Chris Morris, 2010) made my small list of favorites at last year’s Sundance Film Festival, and finds laughs in unexpected places, like Life of Brian, it gleefully tips over various sacred cows with wild abandon. And Everything is Going Fine (dir. by Steven Soderbergh, 2010) has gotten great reviews and hearkens back to such arthouse anchors as Swimming To Cambodia – which used to play for months on end at neighborhood arthouse cinemas now long extinct.
On my fourth “noir” Sunday night I will admit to a cheat. Dead Man (dir. by Jim Jarmusch, 1995) is certainly no film noir in any traditional sense and probably should have been squeezed into the second-half of my Black & White Magic on Sunday’s program (what with it being haunting, enigmatic, and having fantasy elements). Still… so many of my favorite film noirs feature doomed characters and deadly gunslingers in an existential battle that put their free will into question, and I feel Dead Man touches on all of those things – and more. J. Hoberman referred to Dead Man as “the Western Andrei Tarkovsky always wanted to make.” Here is a film that casts a spell. If you get it, you’re mesmerized and carried somewhere transcendent. If you don’t get it, well, you’ll probably hate it and get sick, quickly, of Neil Young’s repetitive (aka: hypnotic) score. Much like American Astronaut (another true, great, black-and-white original), it’s one of those films where you can easily divide those who love it (these usually having seen it on film, on the big screen, with a receptive crowd), versus those who don’t (which, from my personal experience, means those who saw it on DVD, on a small screen, with a distracted friend or two). When programming a series of resplendent films whose black-and-white cinematography shine on celluloid, I had to sneak Dead Man in. Perhaps this excerpt by Jonathan Rosenbaum for his BFI Modern Classics on Dead Man will explain why:
Robby Müller’s stunningly beautiful and exquisitely composed black-and-white cinematography, which includes a wide range of intermediate greys, is punctuated by fade-outs and black-outs between scenes, as if giving us forecasts of Blake’s death even before he’s wounded. Playing against the rhythms of the westbound train at the very beginning of the film, these interludes of unconsciousness or something resembling dream time create a form of of suspension that continues periodically throughout the film, and are an essential part of Neil Young’s haunting score, one of the greatest in contemporary movies.
Phew! Okay, now we get to Oscar Week. Not much for me to say here other than I find it interesting that this, the most aesthetically bleak chunk of layout we have – due to the fact that we didn’t know who the Oscar nominees were when we went to press – will still probably be our most successful in terms of attendance. How to explain this? Well… an anecdote does come to mind. In 2000 John Corigliano won an Oscar for Best Music to The Red Violin. We brought him out as a special guest, and I’ll never forget an idea he had that he was convinced would make millions; condoms that were molded to look like Oscar. Why? Because John’s experience was that when he had that Oscar in his hands he couldn’t believe how many people at the after-parties wanted to touch and grab it (at that time this included one-time pin-up queen Farrah Fawcett). Corigliano swore me to secrecy on this, but that was ten years ago, which I figure is now past the statute of limitations. If any condom makers out there are reading this; you’re welcome. Not only does everyone want to touch Oscar, it’s also a big social event on par with Super Bowl parties, and for a lot of people these screenings of the nominees in the shorts categories will be their only chance to see them before the festivities.
We now reach the half-way mark of my schedule with: Enemies of the People, Korkoro, Blue Valentine, and The Third Man. Enemies of the People (dir. by Rob Lemkin and Thet Sambath, 2009) takes a look back at the Killing Fields of the Khmer Rouge and won the World Documentary Special Jury Prize at Sundance and is also a front-runner in the Oscar Forecast. I could have programmed it earlier in my schedule, but obviously I’m hoping that it nets an Oscar nomination and that the added exposure gives it legs. If it wins? That’s gravy. Korkoro (aka: Freedom, dir. by Tony Gatlif, 2009) follows a Gypsy family on the French roads of WWII. Gatlif is well known to my audiences for such previous films as Latcho Drom (1993), Gadjo dilo (1997) and, most recently, Transylvania (2006). Gatlif’s ability to convey the passions of a tribe via music and dance defy normal narrative structures and tap into passions so genuine that they often make you feel like you’re watching a unique documentary. Blue Valentine (dir. by Derek Cianfrance, 2010) just had it’s big city premiere last week with the Weinstein Company eager to cash in on its many accolades (2 Golden Globe nominations, etc.) and is clearly also hoping for some Oscar nods. It has made many Top 10 short lists for last year, and was one of my favorite films at Sundance. Of course, I’m biased, as Derek is a friend, and so I’m bringing him and his film here for a free screening to give our boy a hero’s welcome. The local newspaper recently put him on the cover, and I feel the following excerpt from the article by Alex Stein (Wild “Blue” yonder, Daily Camera, 12/24/10) speaks volumes about Derek as a filmmaker:
Cardiocellulosic event
International Film Series director Pablo Kjolseth also knew Cianfrance during his years at CU. “I’ve chosen Blue Valentine as the cover image for our Spring calendar,” says Kjolseth. “Partially because Derek was a fixture at the screenings. I can even say that Derek attended ‘religiously’ because it was at an IFS screening of Pasolini’s The Gospel According To St. Matthew that Derek became so overwhelmed he lost his breath and gave everyone a scare. The word went around the department that Derek had had a heart attack during the film.”
“When I asked him about it, several days later, he told me he been so affected by the movie he’d had chest pains and shortness of breath.”
“I remember that,” says Cianfrance, “IFS always played the best movies. The Gospel According to St. Mathew is as good as film gets. Basically, it’s a documentary about Jesus that uses the simplest cinematic aesthetics. Nothing showy. Pasolini even cast real people. It became a huge inspiration to me. It’s all over Blue Valentine.”
“I’d come with a friend and we were late. We had rushed, sprinting, to the theater, and arrived about five minutes into the movie, so my heart was already beating fast and I was swept into these intensely evocative images, these powerful screen moments. I realized that my heart rate was not slowing down. In fact, it was beating faster. All the repressed experiences of my Catholic upbringing were up there in front of me.
“At one moment, a terribly deformed man is walking, just walking, toward the camera. It’s a 20-second shot with the camera pulling back as the man comes toward it. Then Pasolini cuts to a shot of Jesus telling the man if he has faith he will be healed, and then he cuts back to the deformed man, except the man’s face has become normal. He has been cured.”
“At that instant, a jolt of pain seared my body. I felt my hand going numb, I didn’t want to leave, I could barely tear myself away, but I had to. I called my girlfriend. She took me to the hospital. The whole time I was in the emergency room waiting for the doctor, I kept thinking I would know I was dead if the doctor looked like Jesus. Thankfully, he didn’t. The doctor wasn’t Jesus, so I knew I was still alive.”
Topping off the week is Carol Reed’s much (and rightfully) beloved The Third Man (1949). I picked this classic to top off the film noirs for a simple and elegant reason that dovetails in with the preceding screening of Blue Valentine. Speaking about The Third Man, Derek’s says “that final shot was an inspiration for Blue Valentine.” For my next post I’ll finish off the second half of my programmer’s Crib Notes with more eclectic fair – but this time the Sunday night black-and-white films switch from noir to titles that veer a bit more toward fantasy.
In the interest of providing closure to those who read my opening paragraph, made it all the way down here, and don’t want to wait around for my second post to hear the response as to why I didn’t bring Biutiful, Inside Job, and L’illusionist – the answer is simple. Roadside Attractions distributes the first. Sony Pictures Classics distributes the other two. Neither will return my phone calls. Why? Because I only show films for a day or two, don’t charge very much, am a non-profit, and in their eyes belong to a non-theatrical ghetto. That’s a long topic that should be reserved for some other post. Keeping it simple for now, suffice to say I’m the low man on the totem pole and it’s all about money, honey. Which is ironic, really, when you consider the subject of Biutiful and Inside Job.
I accept the fact that anyone looking at my program will inevitably point to one (or more, perhaps even many) titles here and, in essence, ask the following question: “What the heck is THAT doing there?!” What follows below will hopefully dispel all head-scratching.
The Agony and the Ecstasy of Phil Spector (dir. by Vikram Jayanti, 2009)
This documentary weaves together BBC interviews conducted by Jayanti with Spector in 2007. Spector, at that time, was being charged with the murder of Lana Clarkson, an actress he’d picked up at a nightclub. It’s a fascinating look at the eccentric record producer and songwriter, one that juxtaposes the interview with scenes from inside the courtroom and archival footage from the past. His fingerprints aren’t just on a bloody gun, they’re also on the Beatles’ Let It Be album and a string of monster hits that had a huge influence on the music industry. Highlights, for me, included incredible concert footage of Ike and Tina Turner burning the stage with incredible vigor. Although this film is far from comprehensive, readers of Keith Richards’ current autobiographical best seller, Life, will be able to fill in a lot of the holes for themselves.
Marwencol (dir. by Jeff Malmberg, 2010)
A bit risky to follow one documentary about an eccentric artist with another doc that one might say is also about an eccentric artist, but it’s still apples and oranges – even though both are anchored by a crime. Marwencol won the SXSW Competition Award for Documentary Feature and gets its name from the doll-populated and 1/6th scale World War II-era town called Marwencol that was built by Mark Hogancamp. Marwencol started out as a form of homemade art-therapy to help Hogancamp rebuild hand-eye coordination after five men beat him into a brain-damaging coma, but the project takes on a life of its own. I think this film makes an interesting companion piece to the Spector doc because one film shows how art can sometimes lead into madness, while this one shows how art can lead you out.
Sweetgrass (dir. by Ilisa Barbash and Lucien Castaing-Taylor, 2009)
Yup, it’s doc week at my series – but the choice here is one that overlaps with another event: the 7th Annual Brakhage Center Symposium (March 11 – 13). Both Barbash and Castaing-Taylor used to teach here at the Film Studies program where my office is located, so I know them both and was happy to see their latest documentary garner critical acclaim. I wanted to program this earlier, but was unable to beat the DVD release. Happily, it has been selected by the B.C.S. to launch “a weekend dedicated to the exploration of new ideas in cinema art.” The other selling point for this film about Montana shepherds herding their sheep one last time through the Beartooth Mountains is that, although it’s been out on DVD for several months now, the word of mouth is spreading about its panoramic beauty. Our audiences will more fully enjoy its lush exteriors on 35mm and the big screen. Plus: it’s a free event with both Barbash and Castaing-Taylor there to introduce the film and follow-up with a Q&A.
Alert readers will now notice that my program skips the second and third week of March altogether. The reason for this is simple: my staff is composed of university students who take off during Spring Break. Technically, Spring Break is only one week long during the third week of March, but students have a tendency to leave early around Thursday of the second week. It’s a fortuitous break that also allows me to attend the SXSW Film Festival (March 11 – 15), and this year I may even check out the Ann Arbor Film Festival (March 22 – 27). Then, upon my return, I’m ready to dive into even more films…
127 Hours (dir. by Danny Boyle, 2010).
I always need to make sure there are at least a couple “big” titles on my calendar, but these can be tricky for reasons associated with my status as a non-profit calendar program located on campus. In most cases I can deal directly with with the main distributor for a specific film. But for some wide-release films, that’s not the case. Without going into too many details, suffice to say that Fox Searchlight Pictures won’t give me the time of day and, instead, shuffles me off to a non-theatrical distributor; essentially a middle-person who charges three times more for the privilege of letting me show the film only long after it’s exhausted its theatrical run. 127 Hours is currently slated to come out on DVD in March, and if that’s the case it’ll cut my audience numbers by over half. So I originally tried to program it at an earlier date, but I was told by the distributor that, nope, I’d have to push it back. So here it is, programmed at the very end of March because that’s the earliest I could get it. I’m having to pay an absurd amount of money for a film that might already be widely available via various rental markets, but I went ahead and did it anyway. Why? Because if it gets enough Oscar buzz maybe the DVD release will get pushed into February, and also because this film is based on the true story of Aron Ralston, a resident here in my neck of the woods. With a little luck, I’m hoping he’ll come to the screenings to talk with my audience.
The Room (dir. by Tommy Wiseau, 2003).
This notoriously bad film was selected specifically for April Fool’s Day. Its cult-status as “the worst movie ever made” has slowly been growing over the years, with fans giving it a bit of The Rock Horror Picture Show treatment by adding various interactive bits. Personally, I prefer Troll 2 (dir. by Drake Floyd, 1990), along with its companion piece the Best Worse Movie, which was a 2009 documentary dir. by Michael Stephenson (aka: Joshua Waits from Troll 2). But, for reasons unfathomable to me, my assistant loves this movie with the red-hot passion of a cougar in heat. My assistant is also my house-sitter while I’m at the SXSW Film Festival, so I’ll consider this a full return of favor.
Copacabana (dir. by Marc Fitoussi, 2010).
This is unapologetically light-hearted fare about a quirky mother and her mortified daughter. I think Isabelle Huppert is one of the most daring actresses to grace the screen, but my audiences usually see her in heavy roles (like The Piano Teacher). Copacabana allows Huppert to show us a more playful side. It reminded me a bit of like when Mike Leigh came out with Happy-Go-Lucky… it was a pleasant surprise for those who only knew him as the dour and intense filmmaker behind Naked and Secrets & Lies.
Woman in the Dunes (dir. by Hiroshi Teshigahara, 1964).
Ah! Now we begin the second-part of my black-and-white celluloid series. The first half was film noirs while this, the second half, tilts itself toward different terrain. It boils down to showcasing films with black-and-white cinematography that gives me goosebumps – and Hiroshi Segawa’s work in Woman in the Dunes most certainly does exactly that. It’s surreal premise involves a bug collector who gets tossed into a sandy pit by the sea, trapped as a mate to a mysterious woman. I first saw it as a college student, whacked-out on no sleep and after several days of cramming for exams. It’s haunted me ever since. This is a film I like to bring back every few years for my own repeat enjoyment.
The Strange Case of Angelica (dir. by Manoel de Oliveira, 2010).
Manoel de Oliveira was born in Portugal in 1908 and has worked in the movie industry since 1928. How often can you say that you are watching a film made by somebody who is over a 100 years old? I’ll confess to the fact that I haven’t seen this film yet, but I programmed The Strange Case of Angelica for two reasons. One: I was quite moved by Oliveira’s previous film (Eccentricities of a Blonde-haired Girl), so I knew he still had all his chops down. Two: when going over the long list of films I was thinking about bringing to my Spring calendar, I asked one local filmmaker (Jeanne Liotta) for input. She pointed out this title with wide and enthusiastic eyes. Jeanne’s been showing her latest work at different film festivals, so she’s certainly “in the know.” Anyway, she told me this film was one of her favorites on the fest circuit and that was the frosting on the cake. One of my dirty little secrets, here revealed, is that as somebody who loves watching film prints over digital projections I sometimes forego a preview DVD screener in favor of seeing the film for the first time alongside the audience. But only after the necessary amount of research, of course. Still, I’ll ‘fess up to having had a few – *cough* – “bad” blind dates. (And, yeah, dragging a few hundred other people along for a bumpy ride isn’t the coolest of moves, but sometimes you gotta fly by the seat of your pants to keep things fresh.)
On the Bowery (dir. by Lionel Rogosin, 1957).
Speaking of spanning 100 years: The good folks at Milestone Film & Video have a library of titles that go from 1908 to the present. They have impeccable taste, and here have put their efforts into a newly restored print of a film that was nominated for an Oscar back in 1958. On the Bowery features incredible footage of New York’s skid row and caused a bit of a stir when it first came. Some critics didn’t care for how it mixed some scripted moments into its documentation of a very real place and its people. Here’s to hoping it creates a stir again: but this time for its invaluable worth in preserving the latter.
Sing, Cowboy, Sing (dir. by Dean Reed, 1981).
An East German spaghetti western about singing cowboys that – frankly – only has a few reviews (and not exactly favorable ones, at that)? What was I thinking? Well… Dean Reed might not ring any bells stateside, but as a musician he was bigger than Elvis… in Eastern Europe and South America. He made albums, starred in movies, had a television show, and was a real rabble-rouser known for protesting various U.S. policies of his time. Aside for his own film career (cut short when he died in 1986 at the age of 47, and under mysterious circumstances), there are three documentaries about him: American Rebel: The Dean Reed Story (1985), Dean Reed – Glamour und Protest (1993), and The Red Elvis (2007). There are two reasons for me to bring this film to my calendar. One: he has roots to this area (born in Denver, buried in Boulder). Two: another local film programmer (Joel Haertling, director of the Boulder Public LIbrary Cinema Series) urged me to bring it because he can only do 16mm and digital presentations, and the only way to screen this German film with subtitles is on a 35mm print from Deutsche Film. I told him that if he’d pay for the rental of the film I’d do it. Added bonus: it’s free!
The Woodmans (dir. by Scott Willis, 2011).
Here’s another film with a local-angle, but this time out the film in question gets much better reviews. The Woodmans got some very nice press at the 2010 Tribeca Film Festival, and Melissa Anderson, writing for The Village Voice, put it on her list of “5 Tribeca Film Festival Must-Sees.” The film looks at how George and Betty Woodman use art to deal with the death of their daughter, Francesca (also an artist and photographer). I’m not sure where George and Betty Woodman are now, but I know they used to teach and live in Boulder, and they still have many connections and friends to the area. Illustrating how small the world can be, my ex-wife was the subject of many of George Woodman’s photos.
The Incredible Shrinking Man (dir. by Jack Arnold, 1957).
Heck, yeahs! A personal favorite? Must be Sunday night! This amazing film never ceases to make me laugh, giggle, cringe, and gape slack-jawed with childish awe and wonder. I don’t even know how many times I’ve seen it, but it’s not enough. I’d always fantasized about being on the set to this film, with its oversized blocks of cheese and coffee cans – but watching it on the big screen is the closest I’ll get. And I’ll take it! Also: this is the ONLY 35mm print Universal has in their archive. (Thanks to Paul Ginsburg at Universal for trusting me with the print – we will take good care of it, I promise.)
Saint Misbehavin’: The Wavy Gravy Movie (dir. by Michelle Esrick, 2009).
I first learned about Wavy Gravy back when I was programming concerts for campus in the late eighties and I booked a band called The Vicious Hippies. At that time they were criss-crossing the country with Mr. Gravy as part of a 1988 “Nobody for President” tour. The film opened last month in San Francisco and also screened at the International Buddhist Film Festival – and here in Boulder we’ve still got a thriving community of both hippies and Buddhists, so this documentary about the ever cheerful counter-cultural icon who’s been at it for fifty years seemed like a good fit.
City of Life and Death (dir. by Chuan Lu, 2009).
Yin to Wavy Gravy’s Yang is this somber Chinese film that looks at the atrocities committed by the Japanese during the Rape of Nanking in 1937. I admit that it’ll be hard to pull people in to see a film whose main subject is mass murder and other war-related horrors, but my hope here is that readers of my program will also take a moment to read a few external reviews. If they do, they’ll quickly see that despite the disturbing subject matter this film is being hailed by many critics as a very accomplished movie that is gripping, moving, and profound.
Poetry (dir. Chang-dong Lee, 2011).
One of my favorite films to screen at the last Telluride Film Festival, this South Korean film by the director of Secret Sunshine is about a 65-year-old woman who finds out that her grandson was involved in the gang-rape of a girl who later killed herself. Adding to her grief is the onset of early stages of Alzheimer’s. Yeah, I know, I know… what kind of genius programmer am I to follow up a film about mass rape with yet another film that will subject my audience to the nasty topic of rape. Honestly? That’s probably a bit of a flub on my part. In my defense, Poetry isn’t so grim. In fact, it’s unpredictable and beautiful, and Korean actress Yoon Jung-hee is amazing to watch.
We Live in Public (dir. by Ondi Timoner, 2009).
This film by the director of DIG! made a big splash at Sundance and is already out on DVD. But when a poker buddy told me that he made the acquaintance of the director and floated out the idea of bringing her out, I jumped at the chance. With the help of another poker buddy (who controls the strings to the Lea and Nick Aronson Visiting Documentary Filmmakers Series) and one grant (from the Roser Visiting Artist Program) I can now fly Timoner out for a free event. Much like DIG!, which benefited from many years of footage that Timoner had slowly accumulated and which chronicles the very different outcomes of two bands, here she once again puts together an incredibly insightful film that benefits from her Zelig-like ability to have been smack-in-the-middle of craziness spanning several years, and with footage to back it all up. In this case it’s the various social experiments conducted by internet pioneer Josh Harris in the early nineties. As I recently wrote to the director: “WE LIVE IN PUBLIC really blew me away – I thought it was way better than THE SOCIAL NETWORK, especially in terms of its insights into how technologies morph our behavior.” No lie.
They Live (dir. by John Carpenter, 1988).
I’d like to make this the subject of a longer and separate post in the near future. Some people might squawk at my decision to drop this in on my Sunday night programming with it’s focus on magical black-and-white films, and I’m well aware that the film has many detractors who dismiss it as a bumbling bit of cheesyness, but I’m a genuinely big fan of what Carpenter did here. Although most of it is in color, the key sequences that really blow me away are the ones in black-and-white: when Roddy Piper dons the glasses that let him see the world for what it really is. I’m not the only one who finds this film interesting and worth revisiting; author Jonathan Lethem recently picked They Live as worthy of in-depth analysis (check out his entry into the Deep Focus series of film books by Soft Skull Press at softskull.com).
I Am (dir. by Tom Shadyac, 2010)
I read about this in The New Yorker (Nov. 15, 2010). The director behind Ace Ventura: Pet Detective and other films that have, collectively, grossed over a billion and a half dollars around the world decided to make a handmade documentary that cost “seventy-four million dollars less than his last comedy.” Unlike Roddy Piper, Shadyac didn’t stumble across sunglasses that suddenly revealed the world to him with sudden clarity . Instead, he stumbled off his bike and got a concussion. That accident caused him to look at the world differently. The result? He gave up his private jet, cell phone, and 17,000 square foot property in Pasadena. He now lives in a Malibu trailer park and is helping various charities. Have I seen this film? Nope. But I’m pretty sure it’ll be a great fit for Boulder. According to The New Yorker article, Shadyac tours “around the country – sometimes by bicycle – screening the film.” Hey! We’re all about bicyclists here in Boulder! Second only to Portland. Mr. Shadyak, we welcome you with open arms and a comprehensive map of local bike paths. Our microbrews aren’t too shabby either.
Brazil (dir. by Terry Gilliam, 1985)
The Angry Robot who signs off on my TCM checks once accused me of treating my film series as a personal Netflix queue – and he’s absolutely right. This programming choice is the most blatant example. Brazil is my all-time favorite film for several reasons. I just screened it two short years ago, so I’m not even giving the poor thing time to breathe. But here’s what happens: as I make new friends and they ask me what my favorite film is, I’ll reply “Brazil,” and then I’ll ask them if they’ve seen it. To my shock and horror, the answer is often “no.” Then they ask me to show it at my house since I have a nice digital projection system and a big screen. But unless it’s on Blu-Ray, I don’t want to do this. And why the heck is Brazil STILL not out on Blu-Ray? That’s not just appalling, it’s weird! Disaster Movie gets the Blu-Ray treatment but Brazil does not? This makes no sense. Anyway, yeah; I’m bringing this in specifically for a couple friends who need to see it on the big screen. Even so, it’d be optimistic to think we’ll have the theater to ourselves as Brazil always packs the auditorium with other fans who feel the same way as I do.
Having been the first person to import the European version of Brazil as a college student back in 1991 I feel a bizarre kinship to this film. Last year, at Sundance, I ran into Gary Meyer (of Landmark Theatres and Telluride Film Festival fame) and he told me something that was news to me: back in the early nineties he’d referred to me as “The Brazil Kid,” and the print that I’d imported (and which Landmark later borrowed for a national tour) was almost confiscated by the MPAA because it hadn’t been given a proper U.S. rating at that time. Meyer hid the print and, despite orders not to screen it, showed it at Landmark Theatres anyway, thus setting a new precedent allowing unrated films to be shown in chain theaters in the U.S. I’m sure there’s more to it than that but, hey, it was a long time ago, and why pop my bubble? I sleep better at night thinking I may have played a small role in helping unrated films get wider exhibition.
Bill Cunningham New York (dir. by Richard Press, 2010).
As an avid bicyclist with over a half-dozen bikes in my carport, it’s no surprise that I’d be happy to screen a film about the 80-year-old fashion photographer for The New York Times who still rides his bicycle throughout the streets of NYC taking pictures of everything. Funny, uplifting, and inspiring – here’s where I try to make up for all the bad mojo people put up with the previous week.
IFS CELEBRATES ITS 70TH ANNIVERSARY!
Yup, it’s a party. We’re not quite as old as Manoel de Oliveira, but we’re working on it. My plan is to have a couple of my favorite bands come out for a concert and add a whole bunch of other festivities for a big shebang. Of course, various films will also be screened… but the details are all still being worked out. I’d like to say that it’ll be a fundraiser, but the last time I threw a huge fundraiser with bands, circus freaks, movies, beer, etc., well… I seem to recall spending four thousand dollars and only netting two thou at the door. I’m really bad at making money, so it’s probably a good thing I’m programming a non-profit.
The American Astronaut (Cory McAbee, 2001).
I have, admittedly, lost track of how many times I’ve brought this film to my film series. But there’s no way I can screen a bunch of films with beautiful black-and-white cinematography and not include this sci-fi, western, and musical – it’s right up there with Brazil as one of my all time faves. Another reason for repeat screenings: we brought our own 35mm print, a new one – struck right from the lab. We first screened that new print last year, with Cory in attendance, but he was a bit unhappy with how the blacks came out. They seemed a bit washed out. So he told us he’d have another new print struck for us, one with deeper blacks. And that’s what we’ll screen tonight. Cory’s band, The Billy Nayer Show, also has a new album out and – hey! – wouldn’t it be great if they showed up the day before to be part of our 70th Anniversary Party? I’m crossing my fingers…
