AFI 2012: SOMETHING IN THE AIR

A scene from Something in the Air.

The Dreamers outsiders

By Ed Rampell

We often label and lump the turmoil that swept America and the world with a series of assassinations, Civil Rights, the antiwar movement, Black Power, China’s Red Guard, the Prague Spring, feminism and so on under the broad rubric of “the ’60s.” Auteur Olivier Assayas’ Something in the Air sets the record straight, showing that the era’s radical fervor continued well into the 1970s.

The film follows the trajectory of a number of French youths as they wend their ways through the tumult of this insurgent hangover, when it seemed there was a world to be won. At the center is Gilles (Clement Metayer), a high school student whose life alternately intertwines with various friends, comrades and lovers like Laure (Carole Combes) and Christine (Lola Creton). Along the way is street fighting with the CRS/SS pigs; tossed Molotov cocktails; and the factional infighting that those who believe in “workers of the world unite” often specialize in. (It’s truly astonishing how people who profess solidarity frequently fight with one another, as if the revolution is their private property.) Air chronicles the faction fights between various leftwing tendencies -- anarchists, Maoists and what the subtitles unfortunately refer to as “Trotskyites.” (To use a racial analogy, this is akin to using the “N” word to describe adherents of Leon Trotsky, denigrating them as fifth columnist saboteurs. Whereas “Trotskyist” is a respectful term like “African American” is; it simply refers to followers of the Bolshevik apostle of world and permanent revolution. Two demerits for counterrevolutionary nomenclature, comrade translator!)

Along with extremist leftist ideology, youth of that generation also grew their hair long and contended with the counterculture’s bohemian influences in the form of drugs; Rock music (Something in the Air has a good period soundtrack); psychedelic light shows; underground newspapers; etc. There is even a strain of mysticism, as Jean-Pierre (Hugo Conzelmann) and Leslie (India Salvor Menuez), an American diplomat’s daughter, make the journey to the East, seeking enlightenment and what Leslie calls “the sacred dance.” Did any other revolutionary generation have to deal with such intense alternate lifestyle stimulus and choices?

Gilles, an aspiring artist, manages to keep his cool and not lose his head by pursuing painting and then filmmaking. An independent thinker, Gilles takes both his screenwriter father and a collective of militant moviemakers (a la Jean-Luc Godard during that period) to task for the same cinematic sin: Bourgeois pictures. Gilles criticizes the latter for using conventional film forms to try and render revolutionary subject matter and consciousness to the masses, which reduces their artistry (or lack of) to trite sloganeering. As Gilles pursues his destiny, does the not so proletarian protagonist sell out in the end?

The gifted Assayas also directed 1994’s Cold Water (a sort of forerunner to Air); 1996’s Irma Vep; a segment of the 2006 omnibus film Paris Je T’Aime; and the riveting 333-minute Carlos, about the ultra-left hit man, which flew by without a dull moment.

Something in the Air is, of course, a feature film with actors, Assayas’ script, production values, etc., yet it is among the best chronicles -- fictional or nonfiction -- of that heady heyday of radicalism and the young revolutionaries who tried, albeit imperfectly, to change the world for the better. Although I of course had nothing to do whatsoever with this work and grew up in New York, not near Paris, Something in the Air is probably the closest thing I’ve seen onscreen to “my” own biography. Indeed, on the exact day I left America to pursue my destiny (I’m still waiting, BTW) in the South Seas, Chairman Mao died.

In any case, if you weren’t alive or of age then to experience those days of rage and hope, when world revolution seemed imminent, the highly recommended Something in the Air will vividly, brilliantly bring that era alive for you. And if you did participate in that period when for a brief moment all things seemed possible, you can relive them during this movie masterpiece that helps us to remember when we were able, perchance, to dream.


Something in the Air screens Nov. 2, 7 p.m. Chinese 1 Theater; Nov. 4, 4:30 p.m. Chinese 5 Theater.

  

 

  

 

 

THEATER REVIEW: SEMINAR

Write away

By Ed Rampell

One of the great things about L.A.’s theater scene is that the TV and film industries provide a vast talent pool of thespians, some of whom are eager to ply their trade by trodding the boards, from Equity waiver 99-seaters to the Ahmanson. And Angelino audiences are in luck, as Seminar’s lead role is played by Jeff Goldblum, a bona fide Hollywood star who has appeared in blockbusters from Jurassic Park to Independence Day.

A once promising novelist now under a cloud of suspicion, Leonard seems to have abandoned his art for booze and bedding co-eds, as he turns to book editing, magazine articles and academia to keep the wolf (re: bill collectors) at the door. He also teaches a pricey rarified weekly writing seminar for young aspiring literati in the Upper Westside apartment of wannabe wordsmith Kate (Aya Cash), who comes from a well-to-do family. At Kate’s posh Manhattan pad Leonard proceeds to alternately praise or rip his tutorial subjects apart, lauding or lambasting their literary efforts, as he, perhaps, unleashes and works through his own inner demons. (When he does so Goldblum is the creepiest he’s been since David Cronenberg’s 1986 sci-fi horror remake The Fly.)

Douglas (Lucas Near-Verbrugghe) is a pretentious scribe who happens to have a last name with a certain cache in the dynastic-oriented literary realm. He pompously holds forth on topics, describing their “interiority and exteriority” and so on. Izzy (Jennifer Ikeda) schemes to attain celebrity status by sleeping her way toward the pantheon of scribblers in the public eye. The stony broke Martin (Greg Keller) is critical of both the maestro and his classmates alike. But for some strange reason he never quite gets around to submitting his own unpublished manuscripts for review, and possible scorn and derision.

As the quartet strive for success in the world of publishing, the rapidly paced clever dialogue references creative communities and colleges such as Yaddo and Bennington, supposed hothouses for launching hopeful literary lions towards getting published, fame and fortune. As Leonard’s class unfolds there are enough shifting romantic liaisons to make Woody Allen’s polyamorous skull spin. Who does and does not get “lucky” (and with whom) is a wry commentary on “success,” which can be sexual in the celebrity sense and/or artistic.

Award winning playwright Theresa Rebeck’s must-see (and hear) Seminar is often funny, sometimes sexy and always insightful, shedding light not only on the trap and claptrap of celebrityhood but more importantly on the literary creative process and on what it truly means to be a writer. Along the way there are meditations upon ethics and great lines tossed about, such as thoughtful Kate’s spot on observation: “Fraud is a way of life in a capitalist culture, especially in the arts.”

Sam Gold, who helmed the Broadway production of Seminar, expertly, tautly directs the current ensemble cast with finesse. They all strike the right notes of pathos or humor, especially Goldblum, who, in addition to his Tinseltown big budget hits, has a rather extensive theater background and has acted in films by Robert Altman, Paul Mazursky, etc. At age 60 Goldblum is hitting his stride and all his marks, whether delivering zingers, stingers or soliloquies.

The breezy dizzy Izzy is no ditzy blonde -- she’s an Asian-American. Ikeda appeared on the Great White Way in Top Girls, which is ironic as her girl goes topless in Seminar while she uses her feminine charms to climb the literary ladder towards media acclaim. Some may consider Izzy to be a blithe free spirit; others may find her to be a sensationalized sensual-ized stereotype of the “Eastern” sex kitten who freely pleasures white males.

Rebeck’s rumination on the literary life contains plot and character twists that reveal what it genuinely means to be an artist, especially in this overly commercialized world where a terrifyingly small number of Americans read contemporary fiction, and where the publishing world is undergoing major shifts due to the nature of technology and a collapsing economy. Of course, the underlying core of the problem is the small amount of readers of books in our glitz-driven electronic and digital media saturated society, which seems poised on the verge of becoming a parody of Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, where there’s no need to outlaw reading books, since so few people do, anyway. (The lawmakers are probably illiterate and couldn’t write the legislation anyway.   

Seminar ends contemplatively and with the play’s only scene change. In another realistic set designed by David Zinn, Martin confronts his tutor at Leonard’s apartment, its shelves brimming with books, where the truth is revealed by the student and his teacher, who confesses to having “no skin.” The perfect note -- literally -- is struck, as church music mysteriously sounds, suggesting the spiritual nature and calling of the writing process.

What, pray tell, exactly is a writer, those creatures inking out a living by creating a precious cosmos composed of words, as Seminar puts it? For my money (or lack of, since I am one) a writer is someone who has something to say and says it well, in written form. And, dare I say it, may even hope to write the wrongs of the world in doing so.


Seminar runs through Sunday, Nov. 18 at the Ahmanson Theatre, 135 N. Grand Ave., Los Angeles, CA 90012. For more info: www.centertheatregroup.org/; 213-628-2772.

 

    

FILM REVIEW: WUTHERING HEIGHTS

Cathy (Kaya Scodelario) in Wuthering Heights.

On the lower half

By Ed Rampell

A while back audiences experienced a series of screen adaptations of Jane Austen’s 19^th century novels. Now, we seem to have a cinematic cycle of revivals of the Brontë Sisters’ Gothic romances. Charlotte’s oft-filmed Jane Eyre (the first movie version was shot by 1910) returned to the big screen last year. Now it’s the turn of Emily Brontë’s likewise much made (originally in 1920) and much-remade Wuthering Heights (published in 1847) to be reincarnated on the silver screen. So what’s different and new about English director Andrea Arnold’s rendition, which she co-wrote with Olivia Hetreed (Girl With a Pearl Earring)?

At first blush, one might think that adding an interracial dimension to this tale of thwarted love is a brand new 21^stcentury brainstorm. I hate to dampen the Eureka! moment, but William Wyler’s 1939 version -- the most famous adaptation, this Best Picture Oscar nominee was co-written by no less than Ben Hecht, Charles MacArthur and John Huston -- co-starred Englishmen Laurence Olivier and David Niven, who played opposite Merle Oberon. While her character, Catherine Earnshaw, is certainly of pure British pedigree, Ms. Oberon herself was reportedly born in Bombay and of Welsh-Indian ancestry. So the inter-ethnic element was already arguably implicit in Wyler’s Wuthering Heights, although to be fair it is far more explicitly explored in Arnold’s film.

Solomon Glave, who plays young Heathcliff, and James Howson, who portrays Heathcliff as a young man, both appear to be black, UK-born actors who make their acting debuts in this tragedy about unrequited love. The lead male character is a foundling, brought to Wuthering Heights by the erstwhile Bible-thumping Mr. Earnshaw (Paul Hilton), owner of the eponymous remote farm located in northern England near windswept, mystic moors. Although Heathcliff’s color is much remarked upon (especially by Cathy’s older brother, the harebrained Hindley, roguishly played by Lee Shaw), his precise ethnic origins are never fully explained. Although if I heard correctly, at one point he’s referred to as a “Lascar,” which -- if that’s the case -- would make Heathcliff from India or another country east of the Cape of Good Hope at South Africa. However, I do think this Heathcliff is meant to be of indeterminate African ancestry.

Be that as it may (or may not), his dark skin complicates matters greatly and amplifies why he is “unworthy” of being loved by Cathy. Heathcliff grows up in close quarters with Cathy, portrayed as a young female of indeterminate age(s) by newcomer Shannon Beer, then as an adult by Kaya Scodelario, both of them apparently Caucasian British actresses. Living a hard scrabble existence at the farm, she and Heathcliff romp on the moors -- away from civilization’s restraints -- together, sleep in the same room and develop deep bonds for one another, unhindered and unimpeded by the taboo of incest (unlike Hindley, which may explain part of his brutish antipathy towards Heathcliff, who unlike him, is free of that social constraint).

As Heathcliff and Cathy mature he is deemed to be her social inferior (not least of all because he’s like, you know, black) and they are torn asunder, becoming arguably the most star-crossed lovers in English literature. The wild child becomes a “lady” and marries properly, at least according to 19^thcentury stuffy status conscious British standards. Heathcliff doesn’t exactly sit still for it as he is shunned because he started out life as a mere servant, a stable boy, who in this retelling is black.

Before Sigmund Freud evolved his scientific theory of the id versus superego, the Brontë Sisters did so on the artistic level in their Gothic classics. Heathen Heathcliff represents the unbridled id, the unrestrained instinctual self. Cathy’s id is at war with her superego, the constraints and inhibition imposed upon her by society. As aboriginal heathenism clashes with Christian original sin, their saga encapsulates what Freud would later call “civilization and its discontents” in a scientific book of that title written only a mere 82 years after Em wrote her epistle.

At the heart of both Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights is the thwarting of sexuality. It remains open to speculation as to whether the very youthful Heathcliff and Cathy indulge in actual sex play, or if they never ever act on their sexual impulses, including even kissing, until adulthood (and when it is too late). Take your pick; it’s subject to intepretation. In any case, 165 years after Emily’s classic was published, one would hope that the notion of sexual repression would by now be an extinct “Brontë-saurus.” Alas, the brouhaha surrounding birth control, “legitimate rape,” and so on -- that actually began during this election cycle with Obama’s refusal to allow “underaged” females over the counter access to so-called “Plan B” morning after pills -- proves that those puritanical dinosaurs still trod the Earth.

The supernatural angle of Emily’s novel and the 1939 classic film is played down in Arnold’s film. Emily’s literary device of a character named “Lockwood” demanding that Nelly (Simone Jackson) relate the saga of Heathcliff and Cathy is not used in this adaptation, which is largely told from Heathcliff’s point of view. Cinematographer Robbie Ryan’s moors, shot on location in the Yorkshire Dales, are appropriately moody. (BTW, of the eight Oscars Wyler’s 1939 version was nominated for, the sole Academy Award it won was for the cinematography by the immortal Gregg Toland, who in the next couple of years went on to lens John Ford’s The Grapes of Wrath and Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane.) Ryan’s close-ups of flora and fauna are also very elemental, rooting 19^th century humans firmly in the Earth, as much a part of nature as the insects, beasts and plant life of their very rustic surroundings. However, there’s one too many a close-up a la early D.W. Griffith of a caged canary, an all too obvious metaphor of poor Cathy, who palpably yearns to fuck the daylights out of poor Hetahcliff but is restrained Mr. Linton (Oliver Milburn) and the other trappings of the civilized self. Hail Britannia!

Beer is flat and not particularly appealing as the child/early teen Cathy. Scodelario is more attractive but sometimes stagey as grownup, sexually frustrated Cathy, the epitome of the conflicted, divided self. However, both Glave and Howson as the younger and more mature Heathcliff, always strike the right note, from snarling to defiance to howling at the moon. Sex, after all, cannot be denied, when all is said and done (and undone). Even -- perhaps especially -- in regards to forbidden love.    

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

ZURICH FILM FESTIVAL 2012: OVERVIEW

John Travolta and Oliver Stone at the Zurich Film Festival. Photo by Ed Rampell.

A-Z

 

By Ed Rampell

 

The 8^th annual Zurich Film Festival screened 100-plus features and documentaries at a variety of theaters in Switzerland’s largest city from Sept. 20-30. Unlike its southern Swiss counterpart -- August’s renowned Locarno Film Festival, which stresses international cinema, premieres and open air screenings -- ZFF presents Hollywood movies and stars, as well as European, South American, African and Asian film fare with flair.

 

Oliver Stone’s hard hitting drug war drama, Savages, kicked off the 10-day film festival at a Sept. 20 gala premiere, preceded by a press conference with co-star John Travolta in the Baur au Lac, an elegant five star hotel overlooking scenic Lake Zurich and the Alps.

 

Travolta was also awarded ZFF’s Lifetime Achievement Award, the Golden Eye, and a retrospective of his hits, including Saturday Night Fever, Grease, Pulp Fiction and Primary Colors were screened throughout the Festival, mostly at Filmpodium, Zurich’s repertory cinema, a film buff’s dream that is similar to Hollywood’s Egyptian.

 

Richard Gere was also on hand for Switzerland’s gala premiere of the Wall Street thriller, Arbitrage, and to accept ZFF’s Golden Icon Award. Six other Gere films, including Days of Heaven, American Gigolo, The Cotton Club and Pretty Woman, were also presented. Gere was joined by Arbitrage co-star Susan Sarandon at a press conference at the Baur au Lac, where Helen Hunt, the leading lady of The Sessions, also held court for the international press corps. Like the other aforementioned Hollywood talents, Hunt walked the red carpet (actually called the “green carpet” in the eco-conscious Alpine nation) at the gala premiere of The Sessions.

 

“Master Classes” were presented at the Filmpodium by Iranian director Asghar Farhadi (his Oscar-winning A Separation was shown during ZFF), writer-director Frank Darabont (The Shawshank Redemption was screened) and producer Jerry Weintraub. The Hollywood producer also received ZFF’s Career Achievement Award on his 75^th birthday, while eight of the movies he produced, including Nashville, Diner, The Karate Kid original and remake, and Steven Soderbergh’s three Oceans flicks were shown. German helmer Tom Tykwer likewise presented a Master Class and was paid tribute to by ZFF, which presented him with a Golden Eye and screened about five of his films, including Run Lola Run and the European premiere of Nairobi Half Life.

 

The most common lament among the throngs of ticket buyers was that there were so many movies that one couldn’t possibly see them all. At least the festival screenings didn’t stop projection halfway through the pictures in order to induce audience members to buy goodies at the concession stands, which is common at Swiss cinemas (along with $20-plus tickets).

 

Here are capsule reviews of works your far-flung reviewer saw at the Zurich Film Festival:

 

AM HIMMEL DER TAG (Breaking Horizons) -- One can interpret this German film by Pola Beck as being yet another in the primeval tradition wherein “bad” girls (i.e., promiscuous females) are punished for their sexual sins. Lara (Aylin Tezel) is a wildly irresponsible petit bourgeois 25-year-old who behaves more like she’s 17. The spoiled Lara lives in her own apartment with mommy and daddy paying the rent. She and gal pal, Nora (Henrike von Kuick), are architecture students by day, party girls by night. In a jealous pique, Lara drops what appears to be ecstasy at a nightclub and proceeds to have unprotected sex with a total stranger. Lara doesn’t contract AIDs, but her ensuing pregnancy forces her to be confronted by reality. Undecided about whether or not to have an abortion, she apparently decides to turn over a new leaf and to keep the child growing within her. But complications ensue with her “delicate condition”; perhaps Lara’s “wicked, wicked” ways catch up with her. In any case, true to form, she reverts to her old irresponsible self. Unlike most movies, there is no resolution of conflict in Am Himmel der Tag -- Lara does not end up with her neighbor Elvar (Tomas LeMarquis), an Icelandic aspiring sculptor and interesting character, nor with Martin (Godehard Giese), the architecture teacher wooing Nora. Lara does not go on to live happily ever after, and at the end this “loose woman” remains at loose ends. Beck’s feature debut is auspicious. Despite its “Jezebel” connotations condemning “painted women” to punishment, Am Himmel der Tag is a well acted, realistic slice of 21st-century life.

 

EL ULTIMO ELVIS (The Last Elvis) -- Who knew? Even South America has Elvis impersonators, as this Argentine movie co-written and directed by Armando Bo, who has a screenwriting credit for Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu’s 2010 Biutiful, reveals. John McInerny, an actual Presley tribute artist, portrays Carlos Gutierrez, an assembly line worker by day and King of Rock ’n’ Roll wannabe at night. In this Spanish language movie Carlos’ renditions of “Unchained Melody,” “Suspicious Minds,” etc., are actually performed in English. When asked why he’s obsessed with Elvis, Carlos replies: “Because god gave me his voice.” Carlos tellingly resembles the crooner during his final “fat Elvis” days, cheesy jumpsuits and all, as Carlos tries to balance his fantasy life with the real world and familial responsibilities. Separated from his pretty wife, Alejandra (Griselda Siciliani), Carlos makes a stab at reconnecting with her, as well as with their daughter -- named, but of course, Lisa Marie (Margarita Lopez). Following a traumatic incident, Carlos steps up to the plate as a responsible family man and the father and daughter start to bond. It seems as if he’s finally embracing reality and rejecting a fantasy world that finds him hobnobbing with John Lennon, Mick Jagger and Alice Cooper impersonators and rocking out at old folks’ homes for chump change. But as the title suggests, El Ultimo Elvis zigs when you think it will zag, with an OMG! ending straight out of left field. Bo’s feature directorial debut makes a powerful comment about the exploitation of artists and our celebrity-driven culture (even way down Argentine way). McInerny delivers a sensitive, poignant performance -- as well as belting out a number of the Presley's greatest hits. 

 

END OF WATCH --In End of Watch David Ayer -- the screenwriter of 2001’s Training Day, which nabbed the Best Actor Oscar for Denzel Washington’s portrayal of a corrupt cop -- returns to the scene of the crime. Like the festival's King Kelly (see below), writer-director Ayer’s latest LAPD drama also creatively utilizes and replicates today’s new digital high tech, low budget videography via an officer’s omnipresent handheld video camera, minicams and surveillance cameras. (This usually rankles the men in blue and plainclothesmen being recorded, who perhaps remember how George Holliday’s video of the LAPD beating of Rodney King provided irrefutable evidence for all the world to see --except, of course, for a certain jury in Simi Valley.) But instead of King Kelly’s aspiring porn star, in End of Watch it’s two police partners documenting their actions in the ’hood, south of L.A.’s Mason-Dixon Line (the 10 Freeway). As Brian Taylor and Mike Zavala, Jake Gyllenhaal and Michael Peña convincingly portray rookie cops, whose unorthodox, gung ho tactics and heroics make a name for themselves, garnering attention not only from the department, but from the bad guys. The latter are mainly members of a Latino gang of extremely badass banditos tied in with Mexican drug cartels, co-led by the aptly named Wicked (Diamonique), a vicious lesbian who constantly eggs the hombres on to commit deeds of mayhem in this extremely violent movie (which -- like Stone's avages -- troubled audiences in neutral Switzerland with its over the top violence). When Brian and Mike stumble upon a human trafficking ring and operation in an extremely harrowing scene, they become marked men marking time. Although the notion that LAPD is gallant seems like science fiction that stretches credulity, what makes Watch especially effective is the interracial friendship between Brian and Mike, as well as between the latter’s wife, advice-dispensing Gabby (Natalie Martinez), and the former’s sweetheart, Janet (the Twilight series’ Anna Kendrick). Their four-way friendship and bonding is touching and provides much of this movie’s humor and human touch. The acting is also topnotch.

KING KELLY -- This lighter American movie about a wannabe e-porn star may also suffer from the “Jezebel syndrome.” In Andrew Neel’s feature debut Kelly (Louisa Krause) is a feckless, somewhat attractive aspiring adult Internet star. King Kelly opens with a topless Kelly masturbating online with reckless abandon using sex toys, as her customers, including Poo Bare (Roderick Hill), post salaciously droll comments on the website, cheering her on to orgasm. Kelly’s sidekick Jordan (Libby Woodbridge) shoots her hanky spanky hi-jinks with a webcam, while Kelly’s unsuspecting parents have no idea that their daughter’s bedroom doubles as a cybersex studio. Is this ultimate ditzy blonde another sexually active woman who will end up being punished for her wild ways? As Kelly prepares for a July 4th special and the much anticipated launch of her very own website, she embarks on an odyssey from what appears to be upstate New York to Staten Island that ensnares her in a drug deal gone bad, extreme partying, police brutality and a series of zany, substance-fuelled misadventures. Finding herself in ever deeper trouble during her road trip, Kelly reaches out to number one fan Poo Bare, a state trooper who comes to the rowdy pornster’s raucous rescue. Poo is ecstatic to meet the erotic personality he is fixated on and fantasizes about in the flesh, while Kelly is surprised that Poo is rather obuff, and not obese and pimply, as she’d imagined. But their sexual encounter ends up with one of moviedom’s more memorable coitus interruptus scenes. There is also a liquor store scene where the imbecilic, drug and drink addled protagonist casually mistakes a Sikh storekeeper for an Islamic terrorist, which is redolent of this summer’s mass shooting of Sikhs at a temple by a neo-Nazi. What makes King Kelly especially interesting is its inventive, cinematic style that emulates e-porn and webcam techniques, as Kelly and Jordon document everything with their hand held cell phones, mini-cams, etc., Net style. This film’s form enhances its content, as it captures the essence of online pornography and how much of it is created and presented live in real time in an interactive manner with digital technology. (Although there’s no genitalia seen onscreen, which is a prudish cop out for a movie about an adult performer.) In terms of features, it’s a new way of seeing.

KAPRINGEN (A Hijacking) -- Shiver me timbers: Contemporary incidents of piracy on the high seas provide fertile material for modern day Blackbeards, Captain Kidds and Captain Jack Sparrows. Danish director Tobias Lindholm has made a sort of 21^st century version of those Errol Flynn swashbucklers, Captain Blood and The Sea Hawk, as a cargo ship owned by a firm in Denmark is hijacked not in the West Indies, but in the Indian Ocean. This realistic thriller cuts from the crew, who are held hostage, and their captors, as they languish aboard the freighter, to the CEO of the shipping company that owns the Rozen back in what seems to be Copenhagen, who attempt to negotiate a settlement to the stalemate. A tautly drawn drama that doesn’t dwell on physical violence but highlights psychological pressure, Kapringen focuses on CEO Peter Ludvigsen (Søren Malling) and ship’s cook Mikkel Hartmann (Johan Philip Asbæk, who appeared in 2010’s Oscar winning The Whistleblower), and the toll the long drawn out ordeal exacts on both men, as well as on their families, and the rest of the shipmates. In his dealings with the buccaneers Peter is advised by a piracy expert portrayed, Neo-Realist style, by a real life maritime security professional, Gary Skjoldmose Porter. The otherwise excellent feature fails to provide motivations and backgrounds for the Somali brigands, just as the Horn of Africa characters in the racist Somalia-set 2001 propaganda picture, Black Hawk Down, were similarly one dimensional. Why these Somalis fly the proverbial skull and crossbones is never explained. However, Omar (Abdihakin Asgar), the Somali translator Peter haggles with via long distance calls and faxes, is humanized. Omar resents being considered a pirate; because of his expertise in English, he has simply been recruited to do an important job. One of Peter’s fellow corporate officers, Lars Vestergaard, has a key role in resolving the dispute, and is portrayed by nonwhite actor Dar Salim, who plays Qotho in HBO’s Game of Thrones, and reportedly has Danish nationality but was born in Baghdad. Despite the curious omission regarding what makes the Somali privateers tick, Kapringen is a well-directed, well-acted look at a crime that is ripped from the proverbial headlines, yet as old as “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest -- yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum.”

 

 

 

              

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

      

 

FANTASTIC FEST 2012: ANTIVIRAL

Syd March (Caleb Landry Jones) in Antiviral.

Scanning an existence

By Don Simpson

I would expect nothing less from the son of David Cronenberg to craft his debut feature in the frigidly foreboding fashion of his father's oeuvre. Brandon Cronenberg does not necessarily mimic his father, but the cinematic likeness is still quite uncanny. That said, Antiviral is much more blatant and obvious than anything David Cronenberg has made in the last 30 years; the narrative lacks the intricate layers of subtext for which David Cronenberg is known, opting to project messages that are much more in your face.

First and foremost, Antiviral does not hide its repulsion for celebrity worship. Using an undefined future as its palate, Cronenberg literally turns society's desire to (figuratively) consume its stars into purposefully transmitted diseases and cannibalism. Seemingly as a side effect of this grotesque world, sexual desire is totally vanquished and human relationships have completely disintegrated.

So are the events that occur in Antiviral an unavoidable conclusion for our pop culture obsessed society? Will people eventually resort to injecting themselves with diseases and ingesting synthetic celebrity matter just to become closer to the celebrities they adore? It seems ridiculous absurd, but really just how far are we from that world? Do we not already rabidly consume celebrity culture via magazines and television? As much as it chills me to think it, a repressed sick and twisted demand for this strange world proposed by Cronenberg already seems to exist.

And, oh what a world it is... Cronenberg bleaches the backdrop of the future in white (then again, isn't the future always portrayed in glimmering white?), giving us a very black and white world, one with very little good and a whole lot of bad. The most innocent characters in Antiviral are the celebrities, so much so they are practically angelic. The consumers seem incapable of thought, so they too possess some level of naive innocence. It is the middlemen -- the salesmen -- that are the most lecherous and conniving. They milk the celebrities bone dry, leaving them to die, while telling the consumers exactly what they really want. The black market for these dealings is exponentially more menacing, as the scale of supply and demand is carefully manipulated.

If made by his father, Antiviral would have fit perfectly between Scanners, Existenz and Cosmopolis. In fact, there is a very fine line between Robert Pattinson in Cosmopolis and Caleb Landry Jones in Antiviral, just listen to their accents and speech patterns. They also seem to have the same fashion sense, though Jones is certainly more crumpled than Pattinson, with his unkempt hair and perpetually "sick" demeanor.

As a first film, Antiviral is pretty freaking amazing. It is very rare that a first film is produced with such high production value and accented with quality supporting actors like Malcolm McDowell; but, of course, with Cronenberg's impeccable pedigree, what else would we expect?

FANTASTIC FEST 2012: HAIL

A scene from Hail.

Invisible cage

By Don Simpson

What is it with Australians and gritty neo-realist working class dramas? The world of Hail is pure hell (or, with certain accents, "hail") on earth. It is clearly Danny's (Daniel P. Jones) past that puts him in this "his" place. Released from prison at the beginning of the film, Danny returns home to his girlfriend Leanne (Leanne Campbell). With no legitimate career to call his own, or even a resume, Danny takes a job as a lackey at a garage. Unfortunately, fate (or society) deems that Danny cannot live the straight and narrow for very long; he is a naturally angry and violent man whose only solace in life is Leanne. That leads us to wonder: what would happen if he loses Leanne? We can only assume that all hell will break loose.

Hail is a brilliant meditation on Danny's inability to break free from his economic class due to societal restraints. As an uneducated ex-con, Danny is destined to live a hellish existence. Life will never be easy for him. Daniel P. Jones' performance as Danny is astounding. This is a semi-autobiographical tale of Jones' life, so we can only assume that there is a very fine line between Danny the character and Jones the actor, making this one of the most chillingly authentic performances I have ever seen. The brutal realism is accented magnificently by experimental visual flourishes courtesy of cinematographer Germain McMicking. Hail is certainly not an enjoyable experience, but it is a transfixing experience nonetheless.

FANTASTIC FEST 2012: HOLY MOTORS

Monsieur Oscar (Denis Lavant) in Holy Motors.

 

A short ride in a borrowed car

By Don Simpson

The man who we will refer to as Monsieur Oscar (Denis Lavant) is a shape-shifting chameleon being shuttled around Paris in a sleek white limousine. At each stop, Oscar adopts a new disguise and persona, like an over-booked character actor tirelessly bouncing from set to set. Holy Motors might be a film about playing roles and fulfilling the fantasies of others, but there is so much more to it than that...

Even before we meet Oscar, the opening scene of Holy Motors puts everything in motion. A recently awoken man (Leos Carax) -- or is he sleepwalking? -- opens a secret door in his apartment only to enter a theater in which a mannequin-like audience watches King Vidor's The Crowd. By casting himself in the singular role that delivers us into the surreal world of Holy Motors, Carax suggests the nonsensically dreamlike nature of the film that stands before us. We quickly surmise that the pure, unadulterated dream logic of Holy Motors is the only thing that will tie the experimental narrative together. This set-up also permits Carax the opportunity to remind us of our roles as voyeurs in this hyper-cinematic world. We are the mannequins in the audience, coldly observing the on screen events; we are rendered desensitized, emotionless.

It is not long before we cut to Oscar as he exits a house and enters his white limousine, chauffeured by his loyal aid, Celine (Edith Scob). Whether this is Oscar's real life or just another play-acting gig, we will probably never know. For all we know, Oscar may be a character actor playing a character actor who is playing a series of characters. Regardless, Oscar performs a series of roles that showcase a kaleidoscope of cinematic genres including: science fiction, monster movie, gangster film, deathbed drama, and musical romance. Whether the menagerie of other people who interact with Oscar are on to the ruse we do not know -- for all we know, they might be actors as well.

Holy Motors is not about understanding what is going on, it is about freeing yourself of inhibitions and preconceptions and allowing yourself float in Carax's sea of surrealism for two hours. Like David Cronenberg's Cosmopolis, Holy Motors shuttles us through its narrative in a white limousine (Carax even permits us the opportunity to see where all of the while limousines go to rest), allowing us a tour of the decaying moral fiber of our post modern world. Holy Motorstakes on the crazed environment of internet culture in which people will do anything to attract web traffic. There are a few hints that suggest that is precisely what Oscar might be doing -- acting in a web serial. However, Oscar's career choice (it is a choice?) is an exhausting and dangerous one, as his relentless timeline could very well be the death of him.