TOP TEN: DON SIMPSON'S BEST FILMS OF 2011

Oliver (Ewan MacGregor) in Beginners.

Blessed states

By Don Simpson

The Arbor -- With a unique merging of fact and fiction, The Arbor is able to reconstruct the pain and struggle within Andrea Dunbar’s work as well as reveal the dour consequences her life choices had on her family. Clio Barnard’s stylistic choice of having her actors confide in the camera (therefore the audience) is a purposeful cinematic devise to add more hyper to the hyper-reality and bring more self-consciousness into the mix.

Beginners -- Only in Hollywood will characters like Hal and Oliver both find perfect partners exactly when they need them the most. That is Beginners’ only flaw and it is one that I can easily forgive. Otherwise, writer-director Mike Mills’ (Thumbsucker) film is as perfect as a tearjerker, romantic drama can get in my book. Very few films handle family skeletons, the loss of loved ones, and the rediscovery of love (in both straight and queer relationships, no less) with such agility. Oh, and just be sure to keep lots of tissues close at hand, Beginners is guaranteed to conjure up some waterworks.

Better This World -- In constructing their narrative, Kelly Duane de la Vega and Katie Galloway must first re-create for the audience what happened prior to the commencement of their production, so they rely on archival footage and talking head interviews recollecting the events. De la Vega and Galloway allow everyone, including the FBI, to tell their version of the story and surprisingly enough, they all seem to be on the same page (or at least the same chapter), except for the actions of the FBI informant. The unfolding of the events is spine-tingling (at least for someone of my political persuasion). Better This World represents how conservative America’s post-9/11 War on Terror went terribly awry, ripping away the civil liberties of American citizens and instantly squashing any form of political dissent.

Film Socialisme -- For English-speaking audiences, Godard obliterates any resemblance of coherent/cohesive dialog (or narrative) by releasing Film Socialisme with what he refers to as “Navajo” English subtitles. By doing so, Godard deconstructs the primarily French dialog into an oblique code that isolates or concatenates specific nouns and verbs (presumably) from the spoken dialog. But without grammar or structure, the words remain just that, words. The spoken dialog becomes part of the film’s soundtrack and the subtitles present mere clues of what might be going on. Knowledge of multiple languages becomes power; the ability to effectively communicate across borders leads to peace, love and understanding. It is difficult to ignore the inherently Godardian “fuck you” to the Anglophone imperialists in the audience. It is as if Godard does not want non-Francophones to know the true meaning or purpose of Film Socialisme.

Martha Marcy May Marlene -- For me, the real payoff of Martha Marcy May Marlene can be found in the ending, which is rivaled only by Meek’s Cutoff in terms of sublime ambiguity. The comparisons between Martha Marcy May Marlene and Meek’s Cutoff do not end there. Both films toy with the audience’s preconceived notions of cinematic genres and traditional narrative tropes, while they also rely solely upon their infinite layers of subtext to communicate their significance. Most importantly, both films proselytize the unique power of the cinematic art form. These are stories that could never be properly conveyed via any other medium — that right there is precisely why Martha Marcy May Marlene and Meek’s Cutoff are two of my favorite films of 2011.

Meek’s Cutoff -- Kelly Reichardt’s film — penned by Jonathan Raymond (Reichardt’s co-writer on Old Joy and Wendy and Lucy) — is, at least in theory, a western but with most of the genre’s conventions flipped completely inside out. Cinematographer Chris Blauvelt’s grand panoramas of the striking Oregonian vista is photographed in a boxy 4:3 aspect ratio, which adds a unique sense of claustrophobia to the image. Reichardt and Blauvelt rely quite heavily on long and medium compositions, but the camera does occasionally cut to various characters’ facial expressions to convey meaning, intent or emotion.

Shame -- Shame is one of those rare modern films that I would love to construct a hearty critical analysis of, mainly because the perspectives and framing of every scene convey as much purpose as the characters themselves. But a discussion of this film at that level will require several more viewings and a significantly higher word count. (Heck, it might take me a few thousand words just to discuss the scene in which Sissy performs “Theme from New York, New York“.) As much as I admire the writing, direction and performances of Shame, I do not know how many repeat viewings I could endure. Shame is an emotionally exhausting film; it is certainly not a film that is intended to be enjoyed.

Tomboy -- With Tomboy, writer-director Céline Sciamma delves much deeper into the taboo (at least on this side of the Atlantic) theme of childhood sexuality that she discussed all-so-eloquently in her 2007 feature-length debut, Water Lilies. Laure is five years younger than Water Lilies’ Marie, Anne and Floriane; thus Laure is also significantly more innocent. The root of Laure’s deception is not about sexual attraction to girls — though she does kiss a girl — it is about wanting to play like a boy.

Weekend -- We observe Russell and Glen as they flounder about, attempting to negotiate the course of the first couple days of their relationship — just as a lot of heterosexual couples do. That is one of the other brilliant aspects of Weekend, the way the story becomes a universal one, transcending all notions of sexual preference and gender. Other than when Russell and Glen kiss each other and have sex, there is nothing gay about these characters, they transcend categorization. Even the film’s ending co-opts a classic trope from heterosexual cinema, cleverly pointing out that the gender of the characters bidding farewell to each other on the train station platform really does not matter; what matters is that the audience is adequately convinced that the two characters love each other and the impending division will tear their hearts apart.

Where Soldiers Come From -- Despite the obvious temptation to bombard the audience with additional footage of the war-torn soldiers and their families railing against U.S. economic, military, and foreign policies, Heather Courtney refrains from turning Where Soldiers Come From into a heavy-handed political diatribe; instead, the resulting film is a deeply humanistic tale of five young men yearning to earn some basic financial stability in their futures. This, however, does not mean that the audience will refrain from bringing politics into their viewing experience, because there are a lot of political issues at the heart of Where Soldiers Come From.

 

TRUE/FALSE FILM FEST 2011: THE ARBOR

Andrea Dunbar (Monica Dolan) in The Arbor.

Real to reel

By Don Simpson

The eighth annual True/False Film Festival (March 3-6, 2011) transformed downtown Columbia, Missouri into a utopian haven of nonfiction cinema. Featuring an impressive selection of the best documentaries from major international film festivals (as well as five "top secret" screenings of films pending high profile official world premieres elsewhere), True/False purposefully programs nonfiction films that provoke dialogues about their subjects and bring into question the ethical responsibilities of the documentary form itself. 

Complimenting the films, the True/False Film Festival offers a seamless integration of live music into their four-day program as well as debates, game shows and parties, parties and more parties.

In what has come to be known as verbatim theatre, transcripts of interviews, hearings and/or trials are dramatised on stage by actors. Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman’s film Howl is probably the best cinematic example of this novel storytelling technique, but director Clio Barnard really ups the ante by having her actors lipsync dialogue to audio-recorded interviews, further morphing the line between reality and fiction.


Barnard’s film is about Andrea Dunbar, the West Yorkshire author of three gritty social-realist plays who died in 1990 of a brain hemorrhage at the ripe young age of 29. Dunbar hailed from Bradford, England's rough and tumble Buttershaw Estate (dubbed "the Arbor"). The dialogue in The Arbor is taken directly from interviews conducted by Barnard of Dunbar's family, friends and children while passages from Dunbar's intensely autobiographical plays are re-created by actors amongst the (marginally improved) streets of modern day Buttershaw with a live audience of the estate’s residents. The Arbor also cleverly sprinkles some choice selections from A State Affair (Robin Soans’ biographical play about Dunbar) as well as archival television interview footage with the real Dunbar and her family.


The Arbor brings emotionally heavy subjects such as child and domestic violence as well as racism to the forefront of the narrative -- and let us just say that Dunbar’s penchant for alcoholism and poor life decisions does not bode well for her children, especially her half-Pakistani child, Lorraine (Manjinder Virk). Lorraine begins hiding from the reality of her own shitty existence at a very early age by immersing herself into a non-stop drug-induced haze; then she passes along her genetic history of neglect to her own children, increasing said neglect tenfold to morally troublesome limits.


Dunbar’s story is not all fire and brimstone. The one bright light within The Arbor is her success as a teenage playwright. Dunbar began her first play, The Arbor, in 1977, at the age of 15, for an English class. The completed play, directed by Max Stafford-Clark, premiered at London's Royal Court Theatre in 1980. Dunbar’s writing debut won the Young Writers' Festival then traveled across the Atlantic Ocean to play in New York City. Dunbar was promptly commissioned to write a second play -- Rita, Sue and Bob Too -- which premiered in 1982. (Rita, Sue and Bob Too was adapted by Dunbar into a film directed by Alan Clarke.) Dunbar's third and final play is Shirley (1986). Despite her theatrical success, Dunbar never escaped the grim and downtrodden environs of Buttershaw and her downward spiral into alcoholism never stopped.


With a unique merging of fact and fiction, The Arbor is able to reconstruct the pain and struggle within Dunbar's work as well as reveal the dour consequences her life choices had on her family. Barnard’s stylistic choice of having her actors confide in the camera (therefore the audience) is a purposeful cinematic devise to add more hyper to the hyper-reality by bringing more self-consciousness into the mix.


Barnard is as sympathetic as possible towards Dunbar and her children, rightfully chalking up most of the atrocities recreated in this social realist documentary hybrid to poor economics and politics. In style and tone, The Arbor is truly an homage to Dunbar’s gritty working-class narrative style and aesthetic with clear allusions to the glory days of British kitchen sink cinema.