TIFF 2009: The Time That Remains

The Time That Remains (2009) Dir. Elia Suleiman
Starring: Elia Suleiman, Saleh Bakri, Samar Qudha Tamus, Shafika Bajiali and Tarek Qubti.

****

Guest Review by Greg Klymkiw

I was initially unable to put my finger on it, but I knew there was something quite perfect about Elia Suleiman’s “The Time That Remains”. It became abundantly clear during an extraordinary scene wherein a group of Palestinian children are sitting in a dark classroom within the confines of an Israeli-colonized Arab School as their wide-eyes are utterly transfixed upon the flickering images emanating from a rickety 16mm projector. The pieces of time dancing before them, projected onto a tiny screen, yet retaining a scope bigger than life itself are none other than the sprawling spectacle of the Stanley Kubrick-directed epic “Spartacus” – Hollywood’s ultimate big-screen allegory of Zionism. It is this scene that precisely defines the perfection of Suleiman’s great film for a number of reasons. First of all, the scene flawlessly demonstrates the differences in approaches to the issue of the Arab-Israeli conflict. “Spartacus” is, of course allegorical and an epic tale of subjugation presented with all that money can buy. “The Time That Remains” is also an epic, but with comparatively meagre resources, it focuses – not on spectacle, but on the smaller, more confined details of humanity in the realm of subjugation. Secondly, the scene demonstrates the perfection of Suleiman’s delicate, poetic and quiet approach to the subject, in direct contrast to the violent, spectacular bombast of Kubrick’s picture which, in fairness to Kubrick is an exquisitely directed gun-for-hire job and not the personal, poetic, from-the-heart and primarily autobiographical approach that Suleiman takes. As well, Suleiman shares with Kubrick that magnificent stylistic approach to the tableau – finding just the right composition and holding on it. Thirdly, the scene expresses the notion that all cinema, no matter what side of the political fence it sits on, is rooted firmly in some form or another of a perspective that is almost always propagandistic in nature. “The Time That Remains” takes a side and sticks to it in a black and white manner with an occasional splash of grey in order to present its tale of subjugation with an equal mixture of sadness and humour.

Set against the backdrop of the city of Nazareth, the film charts the life of a simple, loving Palestinian family from 1948 to the present day and is delivered to us in a number of different time periods. Based on his father’s diaries and his own recollections, Suleiman presents the lives of his family, friends and neighbourhood and examines the absurdity and injustice of people being forced to live as strangers in their own land. In fact, the Palestinians who choose to remain in Nazareth instead of being exiled are categorized by their oppressors – not as Palestinians, but as Israeli-Arabs. Suleiman presents all of this with a strange mixture of humour and tragedy. In one scene – which is as beautiful as it is bizarre – the same group of children described above are seen proudly singing a rousing, pro-Israeli song in Hebrew on a national holiday while a group of adults look on proudly. In yet another, a group of young Palestinian men sit outside a café in the blazing sun and watch with a poker-faced bemusement as a soldier runs back and forth, occasionally asking which way he should go to the battlefield and when told which way to go, he argues that it must be the wrong way – especially since the sounds of battle seem to be coming from every which way. Another scene involves Israeli soldiers decked out in Arab gear and marching along the street when a Palestinian woman congratulates them on their victory. She receives a bullet to the head for her salutations in a shocking, deadpan and screamingly funny manner – recalling that famous moment (in of all movies) “Raiders of the Lost Ark” when Indiana Jones casually blows away the sword-wielding turban-adorned bad guy.

Since Suleiman’s film spans several different periods and doesn’t follow (on the surface) the traditional and comfortable storytelling checkpoints, it’s not an easy movie to describe in terms of plot, but in a nutshell – it is a story that begins with resistance to subjugation, moves through to acceptance of subjugation and ends up in a seemingly ambiguous place of “Where am I?” While the narrative feels unconventional, Suleiman does indeed adhere to the principles of basic storytelling, but cleverly masks them to create the feeling that with the passage of time, not much changes. In spite of this, things DO change, but the changes are incremental and subtle.

The primary reason for this overwhelming sense of the unconventional is that Suleiman establishes a rhythm and structure early on in the film and adheres to it passionately – one that involves the repetition of certain actions and situations – the funniest being one in which the family’s neighbour, a mad old man, unsuccessfully and repeatedly attempts to immolate himself, dousing himself with kerosene and lighting his match improperly, and upon subsequent tries is continually talked out of it by Suleiman’s father.

As a character in the film, we also follow Suleiman who, in the early portions casts some extraordinary look-alikes to play himself in childhood, adolescence and early adulthood before taking over the role proper in the latter sections of the film. Suleiman and his surrogates continue his silent Keaton-like poker face from earlier films to especially powerful effect in this new picture.

Many have commented on Suleiman’s debt to the likes of Keaton, Harry Langdon and Jacques Tati and while I will not quarrel with this, I also feel strongly that he infuses his work and performance with the same sublime qualities so prevalent in the best work of Chaplin. “The Time That Remains” has several moments that come close to matching the incredible emotional wallop of Chaplin’s final smile at the end of “City Lights” and this is finally why watching this film is such a breathless and awe-inspiring experience.

“The Time That Remains” might well be a masterpiece, though time, as always, will be the ultimate judge of that.

“The Time That Remains” is playing at the 2009 Toronto International Film Festival and will be theatrically released by E1 Films.

TIFF 2009: A Serious Man

A Serious Man (2009) dir. Joel and Ethan Coen
Starring: Michael Stuhlbarg, Sari Lennick, George Wyner, Richard Kind

**1/2

Larry Gopnick has lived his life doing everything right, everything he thought he should do to make a living and succeed. It’s the 1960’s and he lives in saccharine suburban Minnesota, with a wife and two kids, a stabile job, decent health and a protective circle of Jewish friends and relatives. And so, when, in a matter of weeks, piece-by-piece, Larry’s life comes crashing down seemingly at random, he’s befuddled and unable cope.

It’s a familiar arena for the Coens, a skewed perspective of everyday life from a humble everyman just trying to get by. Larry Gopnick (played well by newcomer Michael Stuhlbarg) is a hero not unlike Billy Bob Thornton’s Ed Crane character from ‘The Man Who Wasn’t There’ who just cuts the hair, or the meek and ineffectual Barton Fink – an affable boob who finds himself pushed around without a shred of backbone to enable him to take charge in his life. Depicting Larry as a mathematics professor is the introduction to the overriding theme of action and consequence. Cause and effect is the stuff of math and physics and for Larry every action has an equal and opposite reaction. And so when his wife reveals she’s leaving him, his university job is suddenly in jeopardy, his brother who is found out to be a defiling pederast the equation doesn’t compute.

This is the story of “A Serious Man” a film more in the league of the morose, cynical and very skewed take on suburban life of ‘The Man Who Wasn’t There’ than the plot driven noir of ‘No Country For Old Men’ or the slapstick farce of ‘Burn After Reading’ and ‘The Big Lebowski’.

With it’s loose plotting, the Coens rely on the episodic and situational absurdities to drive the story. And indeed there are some real zingers. There’s Larry’s obnoxious wife Judith who announces with stone-faced smugness she’s leaving Larry and remarrying his good friend Sy Abelman. There’s his son Danny who is both studying for his Torah reading and dealing pot on the side. There’s a Korean student who tries to bribe Larry into changing his F into an A. There’s his brother Arthur who has to use a suction device to remove the liquid from the boil on his neck daily.

Unfortunately the whole is not equal or greater than the sum of it’s parts. The film suffers most, obviously, from Larry’s inactivity as a protagonist. We don’t need to get out the Syd Field book to recognize that we desperately want Larry to take action, fight back, stand up for himself. The Coens are aware of this and make it part of the story but this acknowledgement does not make it less frustrating.

As well the Coens again refuse to provide us with a real ending, as if their free association of scenes, moments and characters just ran out, and decided to pack it in and call it a day with a cut to black. With the aid of the bookending Jefferson Airplane song it’s made more palatable than the jarring final cut in ‘No Country For Old Men” or sudden ending of “Burn After Reading”, but the film feels no more complete.

‘A Serious Man’ should be savoured for its inspired personal reflections on the Coen’s youthful experiences with Judaism. Laughs are big and small, and most of the time a constant smile on face persisted past its failings but we require more from the brothers and though I wanted to love the film, it has to rank as a disappointment.

TIFF 2009: Agora

Agora (2009) dir. Alejandro Amenabar
Starring: Rachel Weisz, Max Minghella, Oscar Isaac, Michael Lonsdale, Ashraf Barhom and Sammy Samir

**

Guest Review by Greg Klymkiw

“Agora” approaches the subject of religion in a historical context with lots of sizzle, but ultimately fails to serve up the steak. This is truly unfortunate since a feature film rendering of the tragic demise of the famed Alexandria Museum and Library has had a long enough wait for big-screen treatment. In the hands of the reasonably talented, but rather humourless and precious Spanish director Alejandro Amenabar (“The Others”), this epic-scaled tale of 4th Century clashes between pagans, Christians and Jews during the last days of the Roman Empire in Egypt is not without interest (particularly in the first forty minutes or so), but it eventually loses its footing and drags leadenly to an inevitable conclusion. One of the biggest problems is the epic-scale itself, or rather, lack thereof as Amenabar seeks to rise above the usual sex and sin antics of such works in order to create a sense of intimacy and do so with taste and intelligence. While these are surely most lofty and purportedly worthwhile goals, that doesn’t stop them from being dull.

The central problem with the film might actually be the decision to focus on the story of Hypatia (Rachel Weisz), the brilliant mathematician and teacher of philosophy who preserved her chastity in order to solely devote herself to the pursuit of knowledge. While it might seem unfair to criticize the film for this choice, I will gladly stand so accused since it’s my firm belief that a virgin, no matter how passionately brainy she is, can’t really be interesting enough to sustain one’s interest in a picture unless: (a) she is to be part of a Hammer Horror-styled demonic sacrifice ritual (nude, of course) or (b) there’s a whole lot of orgies going on around her. Well, we’re given a nude execution, but it’s hardly the stuff of Hammer Horror and sadly, the movie is utterly bereft of orgies.

What the movie really needed was a bit of the old razzle-dazzle in the Cecil B. De Mille style. It’s not that there wasn’t room for this. We have Hypatia teaching philosophy to a whole mess o’ hunky young studs. Two of the firm-buttock-equipped lads, the dreamy slave-boy Davus (Max Minghella) and buff piss and vinegar nobleman Orestes (Oscar Isaac) pine longingly for the opportunity to remove her clothing as ravenously as she bares her knowledge in all things philosophical and mathematical. For his declarations of love, all Orestes receives is a cloth soiled with Hypatia’s menstrual blood (which she hurls at him as proof that sex is dirty and painful and not worth her time). Dewy and doe-eyed Davus is praised by Hypatia for his intelligence whilst he moons with silent, unrequited passion, yet is chastised by her for buggering something up – hence, revealing her deep-seeded prejudice towards slaves. With this triangle a-brewing, Hypatia’s Daddy Theon (Michael Lonsdale) finds himself torn between the needs of the old guard pagans and the rabidly devout Christians who are led by the charismatic, fire-walking John the Baptist-inspired zealot monk Ammonius (Ashraf Barhom) who preaches non-violence whilst being only too happy to commit it when he needs to further preach the Word of God. Amidst all the heavy breathing and mathematics lessons, conflict between the pagans and Christians brews with plenty of toil, trouble, boil and bubble including such delights as the public burning of a pagan and a grisly attempt to slice and dice as many Christians as possible. All of the abovementioned builds with a reasonable interest-level to the frenzy that is none other than the burning of the contents of the Alexandria library.

Up to this point, the picture is relatively watchable: fine, classical cinematography, excellent costume design, magnificent art direction (both real standing sets under the sunny Maltese locations and CGI) and some very fine performances from all the male leads. Alas, we’re only about 45 minutes into the proceedings and there’s still about 80 minutes to go. What we’re left with are more mathematics and astronomy lessons from Hypatia, much gnashing and ruminating amongst political and religious leaders, a heavy-handed mini-holocaust-and-pogrom of the Alexandrian Jews, even more unrequited panting and, lest we forget that Hypatia is a lassie with some mighty fine book larnin’ emblazoned on that noggin of hers, we’re delivered a detailed demonstration and explanation of ellipses. Eventually, Hypatia is faced with the threat of execution and a nude public parading (though not necessarily in that order) and we’re treated one of the most ridiculous (though not in a fun De Mille way) death scenes committed to celluloid.

Since the movie is committed to spinning a yarn about this otherwise fascinating period of religious history through the personage of virginal Hypatia, what really drags this movie down is Rachel Weisz as Hypatia. The humourless Amenabar wrote the role with Weisz in mind, suggesting there might be more wrong with him than his lack of a funny-bone and his aversion to trashing up material that so desperately needs a foul, libidinous touch. Why this intolerable Weisz woman continues to work is beyond me. The camera simply does not love her. Her throaty, one-note whisper and serious, pinched look add up to one detestable actress who might well be the Jodie Foster of her generation. (And whilst Miss Foster might be pinched and humourless, she can actually act.)

“Agora” has great production value, but it’s a pretty dull slog. One must really need to get remedial mathematics tutelage to sit all the way through it – if at all. With a different leading lady, some discretionary artistic licence on Hypatia’s virginity and an orgy scene or three, “Agora” might have truly been worth seeing. For now, anyone needing a cinematic fix on the subject of the 4th Century religious conflicts will have to make do with this snail-paced, meandering, sexless ode to the beauty that is most certainly not Rachel Weisz. That said, Weisz appears to have lovely feet and Amenabar lavishes some not undeserved attention upon them, so that the picture might find an interested party or two amongst foot fetishists. The rest of us, however, need not apply.

“Agora” is playing at the 2009 Toronto International Film Festival and will soon be in theatrical release from E1 Films.

TIFF 2009: City of Life and Death

City of Life and Death (2009) dir. Lu Chuan
Starring: Ye Liu, Yuanyuan Gao, Hideo Nakaizumi, Wei Fan

***1/2

Lu Chuan’s massive dramatic recounting of the atrocious Nanking massacre will probably become a new benchmark in historical cinema. An epic 2 hour 15mins black and white, violent, disturbing, shocking and heartbreaking experience which shows the atrocities of soldiers in war with maximum power and effectiveness.

To refresh your knowledge of history, before WWII China and Japan were at war by themselves and in 1937 the Japanese conquered China’s then capital city, Nanking (or Nanjing). The battle resulted in 300,000 Chinese soldiers killed, and in the six weeks that followed the raping of tens of thousands of women ritualistically in a massacre, for shear dehumanizing brutality, on par with the holocaust.

This event is not widely known and certainly not in the public consciousness like the Holocaust, but Lu Chuan’s dramatic cinematic record should change this. It’s a precise and painstakingly detailed account put to screen with seemingly no production expense spared.

Yu Cao’s breathtaking anamorphic B&W cinematography immediately puts us into a distinct world of cinematic integrity and realism. The opening 30mins recreates the last stand by the Chinese to hold the city. The battle scenes are as rough, noisy, intense and harrowing as anything put to screen. If the final battle scene of “Saving Private Ryan” were shot in B&W, it would have looked like this. With a history of realistically-rendered war films behind it, and with ‘Saving Private Ryan”, and ‘Band of Brothers” as benchmark precedents, it’s difficult to make cinematic war fresh. But Lu Chuan, by shifting his point of view between the Japanese and Chinese, manages to create a distinct omniscient view of battle. And in between the frenetic handheld gunfire, and explosions Chuan takes time to pull out and frame some truly awesome compositions. The sight of hundreds of Japanese surrendering with their hands up in a church is the stuff of David Lean and the awe of watching hundreds of soldiers gunned down to their deaths in a single wideshot is almost unparalleled.

For the second and third acts, Chuan shifts to the even more gruesome plight of the civilian refugees in the aftermath. We watch as the Japanese soldiers, seemingly left to their own devices and unmonitored by Japanese generals, sadistically corral and torture the women with a disturbingly organized system of ritualistic rape. From here Chuan moves from “Saving Private Ryan” to ‘Schindler’s List”. The cinematography is certainly visual reminder of the effect, but the tone of random, inexplicable violence and genuine heroism, and courage echoes Spielberg’s benchmark film as well.

Out of all this gruesomeness emerge a number of distinct and developed characters. Tang who starts out as a representative of the Nazi party and who cowardly desires to save his own ass goes through the greatest change, rising at the end of the film to become a selfless hero and courageous leader. And the sadistic Japanese leader is as cruel and vicious as Ralph Fiennes' summation of Nazi evil, Amon Goeth.

A film like ‘City of Life and Death’ needs to be made as a matter of dramatic cinematic record. The film demands more of its audience than ‘Schindler’s List’ of ‘Saving Private Ryan’ though. The cinematic brutality on display can be sickening and an emotional beatdown, but by providing us with an impeccably authored piece of art Chuan accomplishes everything this film needs to be.

TIFF 2009: My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done?

My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done? (2009) dir. Werner Herzog
Starring: Michael Shannon, Chloë Sevigny, Willem Dafoe, Udo Kier

***1/2

Guest review by Reece Crothers

Many seasoned directors use the clout they accumulate over their careers to help emerging filmmakers realize their first films, or to make the jump from indies and foreign films to studio pictures, lending the "So-and-So Presents stamp" as a sort of formal endorsement. Spielberg, Coppola, Scorsese, they all do it. Most recently Peter Jackson produced Neill Blomkamp's "District 9", and before the trailer hit, when there was little more than the clever "Humans only" marketing campaign to arouse the audience's curiosity, Jackson's name served as assurance, a guarantee of quality. What is far less common is the joining of two, already established heavyweight directors. When Martin Scorsese produced Spike Lee's "Clockers" from a script by frequent Scorsese collaborator Richard Price ("The Color of Money", "New York Stories"), Lee was hardly a novice, with half a dozen studio pictures already under his belt, and the result was decidedly half-Lee, half-Scorsese. It's as if one artist were giving the other permission to borrow his language, his themes, even his actors.

Now David Lynch and Werner Herzog have joined forces, cinema's two foremost authorities on the absurd, each one a giant among his own fan base, both of whom have managed to cross over into mainstream cinema without surrendering their odd-ball visions (Lynch is only getting more cryptic with each film) and the result is as weird, hilarious, riveting, terrifying and frustrating as their combined filmographies would suggest. How much is Lynch and how much is Herzog is hard to say, but the cocktail is intoxicating. The music, the experimental use of tableau vivant, which Herzog gleefully violates by allowing the actors to blink while holding their poses, staring straight into the camera, the harsh sunlight bleaching the San Diego landscape, all contribute to a dreamy, altered state of consciousness that makes ‘Twin Peaks’ seem a little more ordinary.

After a beautiful static shot of a train passing under a bold blue sky, the story begins with a humorous back and forth exchange between Willem Dafoe and Michael Pena as detectives on their way to a brutal crime scene. The actors contribute worthy additions to the rich collection of memorable movie cop duos from recent years such as Mark Ruffalo and Anthony Edwards in David Fincher's "Zodiac" (animal crackers anyone?) or Denzel Washington and Chiwetel Ejiofor in Lee's "Inside Man" (also featuring Dafoe as a cop). Like those other pictures, the cops here are decent, hard-working, compassionate civil servants, not super-cops, and while providing comic relief they also serve as the humane counterpoint to brutal violence and senseless tragedy. We empathize with them and we distance ourselves from the violence. Dafoe and Pena's characters keep the film grounded in reality. Pena is especially funny as an overzealous but not entirely talented young officer, eager to participate, while his partner handles the emerging chaos surrounding the pink flamigo house in suburban San Diego where Michael Shannon, playing the mentally unstable Brad, has taken hostages and apparently murdered his mother with a sword.

The details of the murder are recounted in grisly detail by the detectives and the witnesses but Herzog has wisely kept the violence off-screen, a welcome choice after the scalping in "Inglourious Basterds", the cheek-biting in "Watchmen: The Directors Cut" or nearly everything in "Crank 2". The truth is censorship is dead, the ratings system an anachronistic joke, and until they find a way to regulate the internet, images of any and every act of depravity imaginable are only a few mouse clicks away and restraint is in short supply. Herzog is weird, but he has class.

Michael Shannon it has to be said, is the most interesting American character actor to emerge in many years. He has that quality of making weird compulsively watchable, like Crispin Glover ("Back to the Future", "River's Edge") in his youth, or the late, great, 70's icon John Cazale ("Dog Day Afternoon", "The Godfather Saga") before them. In 2007's "Shotgun Stories" (a near-masterpiece overlooked in a year unusually crowded with great films), Shannon proved he could be menacing while still playing the hero. As much as I love Lynch and Herzog, Shannon is the reason I came to "My Son, My Son..." and I was a little disappointed. I have a feeling this has to do with how he was directed, but I wasn't on set so it's only a theory, but instead of using his inherent weirdness, as was on display in his work on William Friedkin's "Bug", "Shotgun Stories", and his Oscar-nominated performance in "Revolutionary Road", Herzog also has him playing weird and it takes a while to acclimatize to the performance. Around the half-way point I was so drawn in to the story that I accepted it, only pausing when Chloe Sevigny, as Brad's fiancee, shows up. She is so sweet and normal, that I couldn't understand why she was with him. This is "inspired by a true story", we are told in the opening credits, and it's hard to believe Brad wouldn't have gotten himself locked up with his psycho behavior long before he was ever able to draw the sword.

There is of course no such thing as a true story. What does "Inspired by" really mean? This is an old argument, but an important one. Whether or not a "true story" is even possible is an argument for another time, but in an era when writers are threatened to annotate their imaginations and inspirations to death by Errors & Omissions insurance nonsense, we have to wonder what those promises of "true", "inspired by", or "based on" really give us. Are we supposed to care more because it supposedly really happened? Would "Casablanca" be any better if there was a real Rick & Ilsa? Would you rather read a biography of Hamlet than Shakespeare's play? Would that somehow improve the drama of it? In the end it doesn't matter how much Shannon's Brad resembles the real-life Brad or if there even was a real-life Brad. He doesn't get locked up before the murder, and the character haunts and lingers long after both the deed and the picture are over.

True or not, the story is fascinating. Why did Brad have the sword in the first place? Because he needed it for a play. What was his role in the play? A man who kills his mother. And the director of the play? Udo Kier!! (Remember his scenes in "My Own Private Idaho"?) The parallels between the play and the murder are chilling, as is the revelation of just how long Brad might have been planning the murder, alluding to it cryptically in rehearsals. This is the most effective section of the film, where Brad totally descends into his own schizophrenic nightmare (the word "schizophrenia" is never heard at any time in the film). As harrowing as Brad's journey is, it's often also very funny. The trip to get the sword introduces us to a wonderful supporting bit from Brad Dourif as an insane, Ostrich-farming bigot. Dourif is incredible. Check him out in the recently issued Criterion DVD of John Huston's "Wise Blood", or in "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest" and you can forgive all the "Child's Play" sequels.

It's fun to see Herzog venture into genre storytelling when you consider his earlier, idiosyncratic "art films' and documentaries, and unlike his recent "Rescue Dawn", his strange sensibilities are fully intact. Perhaps protected and encouraged by another artist, especially on of David Lynch's stature, he is free to be himself. I can't wait to see how he fares with producer Edward R. Pressman ("Badlands", "Wall Street", "The Crow") for the "Bad Lieutenant" revamp, also playing TIFF this year. More on that to come.

TIFF 2009: Antichrist

Antichrist (2009) Dir. Lars von Trier
Starring: Willem Dafoe and Charlotte Gainsbourg

****

Guest Review By Greg Klymkiw

“Antichrist” is a movie that burns its reflection of pain into your memory like a branding iron – plunging itself into your head and searing your brain matter, creating that sickeningly sweet stench that only burning flesh gives off and remaining in your nostrils for (no doubt) a lifetime. The pain and by extension – the Passion – also stays with you. A first viewing renders you drained, immobile, and numb and yet, paradoxically there are feelings of profound excitement – that you have witnessed an expression of emotion in ways that only cinema, of all the art forms, is capable of delivering. You are also breathless, and in spite, or maybe even because of the horror you’ve witnessed, you’re almost giddy with the desire to recall every beat, every image and every soul sickening moment of the experience. It’s a movie that demands to be seen more than once – it is a movie to be cherished, savored and devoured as ravenously and gluttonously as possible. There’s simply no two ways about it – “Antichrist” is a great movie! It will be loved! It will be hated! It will be debated! And it will never be forgotten – neither by those who see it, nor by the sands of time! It’s a picture designed to live forever and will, no doubt, be Lars von Trier’s masterpiece.

Now, I will be the first to admit that my feelings about von Trier are very mixed. He is clearly a serious filmmaker who demands the sort of regard one lavishes upon great artists, yet in spite of this, I have often felt that his art, though dazzling, is rooted in a spurious bad-boy posturing wherein his motives seem no more serious than any hack that machine tools a product for the widest consumption possible. Then again, I am reminded of the fact that all films and certainly most great films ARE exploitation – they exploit subject matter, human emotion and the audience – the best doing so with great panache. And in this regard, von Trier is a master. The difference, of course, is that rather than working within genre and/or dramatic convention, his is the work of the high-toned, the intelligentsia (if you will) and that his genre is that of the “art house film” and as such, he has developed his voice and craft to a sufficient degree that he has earned the right to be called “master” even though I and many others detest much of his work.

With “Antichrist” von Trier has made a horror film – pure, though not so simple. Alternately fueled by his clear love and respect for Strindberg’s great play “Miss Julie” and the work of filmmaker Carl Dreyer, von Trier ventures into the sort of daring territory we not only expect from him, but frankly, must demand of our greatest artists. As a horror film, however, it might not immediately be in the territory we expect, but certainly as it proceeds on its unrelenting journey, we know all to well that we are ensconced in the genre – not in a traditional manner, but certainly in its use of expressionistic elements.

At the end of the day, “Antichrist” creates exactly what we have come to expect from the genre of horror and it is infused with a creepy quality that not only keeps us on the edge of our collective seats, but inspires the sort of revulsion that dares to make us feel resolutely unclean for having participated in his powerful, foul descent into human suffering. Goose flesh of the most unpleasant kind overtakes us as we watch the picture and when it ramps up to scenes of PHYSICAL torture and violence (the first two-thirds of the picture deal in psychological aspects of the above mentioned), one’s revulsion takes on dimensions that are almost indescribable.

The movie is broken into four parts, or “chapters” as von Trier labels them, which are bracketed by a prologue and an epilogue. The prologue introduces us to the characters of a man (Willem Dafoe) and a woman (Charlotte Gainsbourg) as they make love – the only sound accompanying their passionate coupling being a haunting aria by Handel. As they reach a pitch of orgasm, we follow their infant child as he wanders about the house and eventually perishes in a horrendous, tragic accident. The four chapters that follow are entitled “Grief”, “Pain” “Despair” and “The Three Beggars” as we experience the couple’s suffering and the man’s attempts to help his wife (he’s a psychiatrist) deal with her pain and in so doing, to assist himself with his own feelings of despair.

Most of this is set against the backdrop of a remote cabin in the wilderness where much of the creepy qualities emanate from the natural world itself. This extended therapy session builds to one of the most sickening extensions of inner pain imaginable – where the internal becomes very external. It’s Strindbergian as all get-out, but von Trier doesn’t merely place a razor in “Miss Julie’s” hand, he takes us into the full-blown horror of the actions, which in Strindberg’s play are only implied. The epilogue, which follows the orgy of horror, contains some of the most stunning images I have ever seen in a picture – images that are as heart-achingly beautiful as they are grotesque. And while von Trier is definitely in Strindberg territory, he does not separate naturalism from expressionism, but is quite happy to make use of both and, when necessary, blend these elements.

As to the charges of misogyny leveled against the film, I can only hurl out the invective, “Bullshit!” While von Trier does not fully attain a level of spirituality that infuses the work of Carl Dreyer, he is nevertheless playing in a similar sandbox in terms of exploring the subjugation and exploitation of women at the hands of patriarchy and/or organized religion. The relentless analysis forced upon Gainsbourg’s character by Willem Dafoe’s character takes on the creepy hysteria and austerity that Dreyer himself explored in “The Passion of Joan of Arc”, “Day of Wrath” and “Gertrud”. That said, however, von Trier allows a turning of the tables that Dreyer could never have brought himself to actually do, though in fairness, I have some belief that if Dreyer were making films today, he might well have dared to cross into the same territory von Trier does in “Antichrist” – territory that is as horrific as it is uniquely and profoundly moving.

I reiterate – “Antichrist” is a great picture!

“Antichrist” is playing at the 2009 Toronto International Film Festival and will be theatrically released in Canada by E1 Films.

From Dusk Til Dawn

From Dusk Til Dawn (1996) dir, Robert Rodriguez
Starring: Goerge Clooney, Harvey Keitel, Juliette Lewis, Quentin Tarantino

***

Most people are divided into two camps with 'From Dusk Til Dawn' - people who like the two act structure, and those who don’t. And most people who don’t like the split seem to prefer the first act hostage road movie to the vampire gore fest of the second half. I think I’m in rare group that prefers the extreme Rodriguez action to the Tarantino gabfest.

We all know the story. Seth and Richie are a brotherly duo of thieves and killers on the run from the cops. They’re in the desert trying to make their way into Mexico and meet up with their money laundering colleagues on the other side. Seth as played by then ER hunk George Clooney, in his feature debut, is the charismatic but ruthless anti-hero leader. Richie (QT) is the loose cannon rapist who annoys Seth at every turn.

Early on the serial killer tough guy bantering with pop cultural references feel forced and recycled from 'Pulp Fiction', 'True Romance', 'Natural Born Killers' et al. And in particular, Tarantino’s ugly presence standing alongside the dashing and handsome George Clooney is just too strange and out of place not to notice. The film gets a quick jumpstart with the appearance of Harvey Keitel as Jacob, the defrocked preacher who’s lost his faith and his two kids Kate (Juliette Lewis) and Scott (Ernest Liu) along for the ride.

When the new entourage of kidnappers and kidnap-ees reach the Titty Twister bar in Mexico Robert Rodriguez takes over. Even before the rampage of vampire action starts a we’re treated to some wonderful dialogue between Keitel and Clooney discussing Jacob’s lost faith, over a fun drinking contest. Tarantino might have a penchant for overly loquacious dialogue, but as evidenced in ‘Inglourious Basterds’, most of everything we hear is by design and pays off later. And with the eyes of a new millennium genre-savvy audience the transition from talky road movie to bloody carnage doesn't seem all that shocking.

The film’s self-awareness and acknowledgement of both cinema history and the filmmakers’ own previous films in hindsight, makes the switch a natural transition. After all, if the first half is QT’s film, then the second has to be Rodriguez’s film. The duo would essentially do the same thing with their ‘Grindhouse’ pictures years later, except with Rodriguez’s zombie-fare first and QT’s talkfest last.

Though we’re told the monsters are vampires, arguably it’s a Romero-influenced zombie film. And looking back, if we accept Danny Boyle’s “28 Days Later” as the film that revitalized the zombie genre in 2002, for 1996, when “From Dusk Til Dawn” was made, puts Rodriguez and Tarantino way ahead of the curve. Enjoy.

Polytechnique

Polytechnique (2009) dir. Denis Villenueve
Starring: Maxim Gaudette, Karine Vanasse, Sébastien Huberdeau

***

Almost everyone in Canada of a certain age remembers where he or she was when they first heard about the Montreal Massacre. That day, Dec 6, 1989, a disgruntled and unstable young man, with hateful misogynistic fervour, took a gun into Montreal Polytechnique University and killed 14 female engineer students and injuring 14 more, before killing himself. It was an event not unlike the Columbine tragedy, or 9/11, which brought the nation together as every year since, on its anniversary, Dec 6 is commemorated as the National Day of Remembrance and Action on Violence Against Women.

All these years later, a cinema version of this story has been produced. With careful trepidation Denis Villeneuve's film “Polytechnique” pays respect for the victims without sacrificing the needs of storytelling, creative license, and art.

With a tragedy so recent and as yet undocumented, there was really only one way to tell the story. Thus Villeneuve uses the two best examples, Gus Van Zant’s “Elephant” and Paul Greengrass’ “United 93”, combining tones of dramatic realism and artful meditation for a unique mixture which avoids imitation.

Immediately Villenueve’s use of black & white, seems just the right visual aesthetic. With B&W, the blood used on screen looks black, an effect which retains the startlingly intensity without overwhelming the audience with gore.

To show the events of the day Villeneuve follows the movements of two students, one female and one male as well as the shooter. We see the mundate real world details of their routines, getting up in the morning, eating breakfast, getting dressed, walking to school, conversing with friends. On this day Valerie (Karine Vanasse) is going to an interview with a faculty head looking to transfer into Aeronautical Engineering, a field which the administrator curtly explains is a difficult program for women. The demeaning statement which shocks and angers Valerie introduces the hateful motivations of the unnamed shooter.

When Villenueve follows the shooter (Maxime Gaudette) into the school we know his motivations from seeing his suicide note being written earlier in the day – a very specific anti-feminist mind-set. Where this comes from, we don’t know, but it’s hateful enough to premeditate his multiple murder-suicide. The violence in the school is shown with uncompromising systematic realism as Villenueve follows the man through the halls, barely talking, just pointing and shooting.

The third point of view is a young male friend of Valerie's, Jean-Francois (Sébastien Huberdeau), who's forced to leave the room when the shooter divides one of the classes of students into male and female. We watch as his conscience commands him to retrace his steps back into the warzone to find and save his friend.

The only piece of artificiality unfortunately is the English-language version currently played English Canadian theatres. The film was dually shot in both official languages, but knowing that the Polytechnique was a French-language school at times took me out of the realism of the film. I completely understand the need for an English version, as it will certainly help penetrate the American market, but as a Canadian I did not want, nor need, to see the English version of this story. Thankfully both versions are on the new 2-Disc DVD.

This creative decision aside, Villeneuve has done this story right. Villeneuve’s statement is made complete with his emotional third act, which shows the audience the lingering effect of violence on those involved, and how the Montreal Massacre has both traumatized lives and inspired them.

"Polytechnique" is available on DVD and Blu-Ray from Alliance Films

Happy Birthday to Me

Happy Birthday to Me (1981) dir. J. Lee Thompson
Starring: Melissa Sue Anderson, Tracey E. Bregman, Lawrence Dane, Glenn Ford

**1/2

Revived from Anchor Bay comes this forgotten-about entry in the golden era of early 80’s Canadian tax shelter cinema – an era which produced numerous genre knock-offs of American films. While 'Happy Birthday to Me' is no classic and barely a cult film, it’s not embarrassing and worth a look for fans of slasher cinema.

On the campus of private school Crawford Academy one-by-one students from an overachieving clique of friends are disappearing without explanation. While the students are in the dark, we the audience watch them get murdered in gruesome fashion by an unknown assailant identifiable only by a pair of black gloves. Who can it be? A number of red herrings try to keep us guessing. Is it Alfred the freaky geek with a pet rat and a taxidermy collection, or Rudi, the hot head jealous boyfriend, or Etienne, the creepy Frenchman?

Virginia (Ginny) Wainwright emerges as the hero – a girl suffering from painful memories of her mothers’ death and some kind of experimental brain surgery which may have turned her into the sadistic killer.

Veteran British director J. Lee Thompson (Cape Fear, Guns of Navarone) directs with the some panache. Production values are top notch rendering the film completely invisible to it’s ‘Canadian-ness’ and if anything, a decent stylish knock of Brian De Palma schlock. Bo Harwood adds an effective classical brooding score for even more polish.

The film has more integrity than most of its 80’s contemporaries. We’re actually deprived us of the youthful skin and bedhopping we expect from having so many good looking young people in a picture. The addition to Glenn Ford, adds some gravitas to the role of Ginny’s psychologist Dr. Faraday. But what we’re not deprived of is a number of creative deaths, including gruesome uses of a shish kabob skewer and a bench press in addition to the usual throat slashings. The DVD is light on extras giving us only a classic trailer to enjoy.

This review was first published on Exclaim.ca

Waterloo Bridge

Waterloo Bridge (1940) dir. Mervyn LeRoy
Starring: Vivien Leigh, Robert Taylor, Virginia Field, Lucile Watson

***½

Waterloo Bridge is Hollywood melodrama of the highest order- a heartbreaking tale of tragedy and romance under the backdrop of war. What starts off with a predictable wartime romance evolves with great subtlety and deftness revealing a psychological character study and a story of class struggle told with maximum cynicism.

On the heals of WWII British officer Roy Cronyn (Robert Taylor) takes time out on London’s famous Waterloo Bridge to reminisce about the significance of war, the bridge and the small good luck charm he holds in his hand. Flashing back to WWI, we watch Roy, as a distinguished upper class gentleman, about to go to war. While on the same bridge an air raid sounds sending Roy and a number of civilians into the Underground for cover. There he meets a young and beautiful ballerina, Myra (Vivien Leigh). Sparks fly and after a brief romance they decide to get engaged before Roy ships off to the front.

Her commitment to Roy, unfortunately, comes at the cost of her job with the dancing company. The dictatorial creative director fires her for choosing love over her career. Like all great melodrama, the ramifications of this singular choice - to find Roy before he ships off or stay with the company to do the show - feeds the tumultuous journey of Myra from here on in. While Roy is at war Myra struggles financially eventually resorting to a truly desperate deed to make ends meet. But when Roy returns home, seemingly after she thought he was dead, she's suddenly thrust back into the life of wealth, class, privilege and respect - a world her poisoned conscience just can’t reconcile.

The title works on a number of levels - of course Waterloo is one of Britain’s great military victories and thus reflective of the presence of war in the lives of the characters. Second the bridge becomes the location for many of the key beats in the film - first, the inspiration for Roy’s flashback at the beginning; second, the place where Roy and Myra meet; third, the place where Myra makes the choice to accept her first male 'proposition'; and lastly the location of her eventual demise, which is rendered visually by director LeRoy with a sumptuous fog engulfed atmosphere.

Deeper than the title is a subversive and scathing condemnation of war and class. In my review of Charles Vidor's noir-melodrama 'Gilda' I discussed the effect of the Motion Picture Production Code on Hollywood cinema - both good and bad. In ‘Waterloo Bridge’ the film succeeds solely on the constraints of the code and it's effects of filtering out the salacious material.

Myra’s war time digression as a lady of the night is never mentioned overtly. In fact, her digression, though so vital to the story is danced around so coyly, and handled with kid gloves its very easy to miss. LeRoy builds up the moment magnificently. During the war Myra and her friend Kitty struggle and scrape to live unemployed. Myra is so embarrassed she's too afraid to even ask for Roy’s help. And so while contemplating life and death on Waterloo Bridge, a male passerby asks her how she’s doing. What’s wrong with that? Just an ordinary guy being friendly right? LeRoy’s staging of the scene suggests much much more. He purposely frames out the gentleman, and directs Vivien Leigh for a contemplative reaction which suggests complete and utter fear. And when it suddenly starts to pour rain after they leave we know there‘s much more going on than just an innocent meeting. As she leaves with the man LeRoy transitions into a series of seasonal images compressing time. And so, in a matter of a few short moments LeRoy has implied a lengthy period of suggestive and demeaning behaviour.

From then on the word ‘prostitution’ is never mentioned, obviously under regulation of the Production Code - perhaps under the article which says, “Illicit sex, although recognized as sometimes necessary to the plot, could not be explicit or justified and were not supposed to be presented as an attractive option“. Even if LeRoy could have gotten away with the word, he probably would have played scenes as they are. Without the word, it amplifies the shame Myra feels for her action and the dishonour she feels she’s committed against Roy’s family. Thus emerges a tragic story of British class struggle and the perceived expectations of men, women and their status in society.

"Waterloo Bridge" is actually a remake of a James Whale-directed 1931 film - a time before Production Code. So I'm curious how these nuances play out unconstrained. This 1940 version works on one more level which the 1931 likely may not have had. For 1940, it was a time of war, and a time when pictures were made to help morale and the Allied cause. And so the tragic fate of Myra runs counter to any sort of prevailing big picture agenda resulting in a kind-of 'anti-propaganda' picture, an unpredictable and inspired slice of pulp fiction.

O Horten

O Horten (2008) dir. Bent Hamer
Starring: Baard Owe, Espen Skjønberg, ta Nørby, Henny Moan, Bjørn Floberg

**

O Horten, a Norwegian art comedy, and frequent festival traveler which arrives on DVD from Sony Pictures Classics, plays like ‘About Schmidt’ by way of Roy Andersson – one of those entries in the self-conscious cinema of nothingness. But quirky wideangle imagery and occasional glimpses of surrealism aren’t enough to sustain 90mins of your time.

An odd looking and shy Odd Horten (appropriate first name) is a train engineer on his last day of work before retirement after 40 years of service. It’s the only thing in his life, and we suspect he won’t have much to live for without his beloved trains. On his last day, he misses his shift causing him to wander the streets of Oslo (?) for a couple days meeting other lost souls while contemplating his existence.

Attempts at deadpan humour come off as just plain dead. Director Bent Hamer visualizing the film with the wideangled eye of Roy Andersson (the Swedeish master surrealist and director of 'Songs from the Second Floor'), but without any of his scathing social commentary . But there’s so little of anything to grab onto other than the wide angle wide shots - and some of them look truly majestic. The situations Horten finds himself in wouldn’t be perceived as surreal if it were not for Hamer’s chosen camera angles.

So it seems false and contrived an effort to make someone else’s film. Its not as surreal as he thinks it is, not as profound as he wants, nor as funny and charming as Hamer’s incessesant tone implies. All style over substance in the worst sense.

If anything the only thing we to latch onto is Bard Owe’s thoroughly weathered unexpressive face. His hairstyle, moustache, nicely fitting, though old-fashioned suit and smoking pipe suggests a man stuck in the past, in a routine which is the sole purpose for his existence. And so his reflections upon his ski-jumper mother who broke with tradition and skied in a man's sports is not lost on us.

And so does a purpose to this banal exercise emerge at the end? Horton steals a pair of skis and attempts to ski jump in the middle of night. We don’t even know if he can ski. For all we know he jumped off, broke both legs and I guess its some attempt to connect with past, - he doesn't. But if he did it would have been the much needed jolt of real comedy this film badly needs. Narratively it exasperates the depressing melancholy of this whole affair.

"O Horten" is available on DVD from Sony Picture Classics Home Entertainment

Lorna's Silence

Lorna’s Silence (2009) dir. Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne
Starring: Arta Dobroshi, Jeremy Renier, Fabrizio Rongione, Alban Ukaj, Olivier Gourmet

**

It could be argued that it was Belgian sibling duo the Dardennes brothers that popularized this new prevailing trend towards social realism in international cinema. That is, socially conscious, character-based stories told with an attention to detail for the mundane movements of its characters.

Two Palme D'Ors later and the brothers are back in the realm of social realism with some minor tinkering to the formula, which, unfortunately, results in their least successful offering.

Admittedly I had to read the press release synopsis to clarify some plot points and help it make sense. Lorna (Arta Dobroshi) is an Albanian gal living in Belgium who seems to have been set up to live with Claudy (L'Enfant's Jeremie Renier), a junkie trying to go cold turkey from heroin addiction. Things are not what they seem though, as Lorna is actually married to Sokol, who still lives in Albania, but is waiting for Lorna to get her citizenship papers to bring him into the country. Underground schemer Fabio (Fabrizio Rongione) seems to be Lorna's agent, brokering this deal. When a Russian mobster comes into the picture looking to gain citizenship, Lorna is sold for cold hard cash to the Russian for marriage. Meanwhile, as Fabio is pulling Lorna's strings, she gradually develops a conscience and an awareness of the immorality of her actions and looks for a way out.

The Dardennes have trouble balancing a back-story, which requires more exposition than they've ever had to give, with the fact that exposition runs counter to their "in the moment" dogmatic style. The scale leans more towards confusion than genre integrity, as most of the above synopsis and explanations of who's who are left for us to deduce from the implied actions of the characters. We've never told who Lorna is or why she's with Claudy or why she's with a junkie or why she falls for him or why Fabio wants Lorna to marry the Russian. I wouldn't even have known Lorna was Albanian if not for the synopsis.

I'm sure these explanations are in the film somewhere, and maybe I'm the nave for missing them, but the plot feels like a crutch for the filmmakers, who really just want us to laser in on Ms. Dobroshi and Lorna, as they've done before with their other great performances. And indeed, Dobroshi has a wonderful face and nuanced mannerisms, which bring across the internal moral conflict she struggles with.

Sometimes we need more than a facial expression or a nuanced mannerism to keep us going; we desperately want to know what's in Lorna's head and even if we guess it, there's value in the spoken word. And somewhere an important message about the commoditization of Eastern European women and the depths to which many will sink to escape to a life they think they need to have is unfortunately lost.

After a number of these Dardenne street dramas expectations are high, either to better or equal the ones before it, or show us something we haven't seen. 'Lorna's Silence' accomplishes neither and is thus a disappointment.

This review first appeared on Exclaim.ca

Hannah Montana: The Movie

Hannah Montana: The Movie (2009) Dir. Peter Chelsom
Starring: Miley Cyrus, Billy Ray Cyrus, Emily Osment, Jason Earles and Peter Gunn

***

Guest Review By Greg Klymkiw

If a middle-aged man wanders alone into a movie theatre full of 8-year-old girls and their mothers and plops himself down in the front row, is it fair to automatically assume he is a child molester? What if this gentleman grew up in a simpler age when the likes of scrumptious childstar Hayley Mills delighted not only little girls and their mothers, but little boys as well? And though one could never admit to one’s mates that he loved Hayley Mills, it was automatically assumed that all one’s male friends were equally enamoured with the joys inherent in the perky, sweet-faced adventures of “Pollyanna”.

Alas, for several years now, whenever I walked alone into a theatre showing the likes of “The Lizzie McGuire Movie” or the Lindsay Lohan remake of “Freaky Friday”, the looks of horror and disdain I would receive from the mothers of all the 8-year-old girls gave me a taste of what it must feel like to be of virtually any non-white racial persuasion walking into a Ku Klux Klan rally and receiving similar looks of utter hatred. This happens less, now that I am usually accompanied by my own daughter to such extravaganzas, but for a variety of reasons too dull to invoke here, I found myself alone at the theatrical screening of “Hannah Montana: The Movie” and once again I received the wary glares of Moms which said, loud and clear: “CHILD MOLESTER!”

It was, of course worth it, because I enjoyed myself very much. Having had the pleasure of watching every extant episode of the Disney series “Hannah Montana” on DVD (with my daughter, of course), I was primed for this big screen rendering of my favourite contemporary childstar Miley Cyrus and I was certainly not disappointed.

As everyone knows, the title character – much like Superman – has two identities. By day, she is normal kid Miley Stewart, but by night she is pop music sensation Hannah Montana. Somehow, by merely donning a wig, nobody – including characters that should know better - can seem to cotton on to the truth. Well, it worked for Clark Kent, so why not? In the big screen version of Hannah’s adventures, her widowed Dad and manager Robby Ray Stewart (Miley’s real-life Dad, country singing sensation Billy Ray “Achy Breaky Heart” Cyrus) is concerned that his daughter needs a break from her hectic life as a pop sensation. Her wildly erratic behaviour includes a public catfight with model/actress/host Tyra Banks over a pair of shoes in a swanky shop and an unexpected rift with her best friend Lily (Emily Osment), so Dad brings her back to their idyllic family farm in the sleepy White Trash hamlet of Crowley Corners, Tennessee. It is here where Miley finds herself re-connecting with childhood sweetheart Jackson Stewart (hunky, drool-inspiring Jason Earles), family and the simple joys of country life. Threatening her happiness is the muckraking celebrity journalist Oswald Granger (Peter Gunn) who is on to the Miley/Hannah ruse and is about to expose her to the world. Does everything work out happily? Well, it’s probably not a spoiler to say that it does. Why wouldn’t it?

This amiable, pleasant and wholesome family entertainment with its picture postcard photography is subject to derision from all those who purportedly know better, but the fact remains that it’s extremely engaging. Not only is the picture everything one would want to occupy the attention spans of kids, but it also fulfills the very necessary function of promoting family values of the highest order (Miley’s Dad is a single parent, but not because of divorce, but because her Mom died).

Miley Cyrus herself is terrific. In addition to being a talented comic actress, she’s got a great voice and truly shines during her musical numbers. She also proves that she’s got the right stuff to be a romantic lead. Daddy Billy Ray is an actor of – to put it mildly – limited range, but he’s perfectly pleasant in a down home corn pone way.

The movie also features a musical number that rivals (I kid you not!) Luis Bunuel in the surrealism sweepstakes – a barn dance replete with step dancing AND (I kid you not!!) hip-hop moves and set to the song (I kid you not!!!) “Hoedown Throwdown”.

To this day, I am unable to shake myself of the lyrics:

Pop it, lock it, Polka dot it, Countrify, then Hip-hop it

I believe the abovementioned poetry will be etched on my mind until my last breath.

Luckily, for those of us in the pro-Hannah-Montana camp, Walt Disney’s recent Blu-Ray release is a dream-come-true. It includes a gorgeous Blu-Ray transfer that captures the Tennessee locations and Miley’s exquisite, milky skin with equal perfection. There are deleted scenes and bloopers hosted by the amiable director Peter Chelsom (who, without talking down, manages a very kid-friendly approach to the material), several videos, the usual making-of shtick and an equally kid-friendly commentary track from the aforementioned director. The cherry on this sundae of extra features is a how-to video on the utterly insane Hoedown Throwdown dance. My child loves it (and no doubt yours will too). What awaits are hours, days, weeks, months and – God forbid! – years of pleasure dancing along to this feature. In addition to the Blu-Ray disc, the deluxe edition also includes a DVD disc for portable players so your kid doesn’t scratch the Blu-Ray all to hell and – God Bless! – a disc that creates a high-resolution digital copy for iTunes, iPods and/or iPhones. It’s a great package!

If you’re not eight years old or a Mom or a middle aged man who loves Miley Cyrus, the likelihood of you enjoying this movie is considerably lower than that of an Arab Muslim extremist wholeheartedly accepting Zionism. So do please enjoy. Or not!

“Hannah Montana – The Movie” is available on Blu-Ray from Walt Disney Studios Home Entertainment

Bad Lieutenant

Bad Lieutenant (1992) dir. Abel Ferrera
Starring: Harvey Keitel, Victor Argo, Paul Calderon, Zoe Lund

****

Back in 1992 as a 15-year-old watching ‘Bad Lieutenant’, the experience seemed as naughty as watching porn, and thus became a sensation. After all, there was full frontal male nudity, rampant drug use, masturbation, and a vile and disgusting act of rape. For these reasons, it’s a film not easily forgotten, but rewatching the film as a mature adult, the film floats above it’s salacious subject matter as a masterpiece of cinema.

It’s one of the most literal and appropriate titles in the history of cinema. We’re dropped into the trainwreck lifestyle of a nameless NYC Lieutenant played by Harvey Keitel. We first see him dropping his kids off at school, swearing, shouting, not wearing seatbelts and when they’re gone, doing a couple of bumps of coke to jumpstart his day. The coke is the tame stuff for the Lieutenant. Though we’re never quite sure what drug he’s doing, we see him go through about every procedure there is to administer coke, crack, meth, heroin. To fuel his addiction, without second thought, he rips off dealers and steals evidence to trade for more drugs or sell for cash to feed his gambling addiction.

It’s the Baseball playoffs and he’s placing bets on every game with as much recklessness as his police actions. With each loss, he doubles his wager to make back the money he’s lost, and pretty soon he’s betting tens of thousands of dollars of which he doesn’t have. It’s not hard to see where this is going, but when he encounters a gruesome rape case of a nun, he finds himself, however small, a moral conscience, and a sudden desire to confess, repent and seek forgiveness.

The Lieutenant is more than just a bad cop, but a carcass of a man, so undignified, so irresponsible, so depraved, he makes Dennis Hopper’s Frank Booth look righteous. From his point of view the narrative timeline is like a blur, days and night meld together, people move in and out of his presence, sometimes motivating him, sometimes feeding him like a child.

It’s easy to see Harvey Keitel’s performance as one of the greatest ever exhibitions of thespian skills put to the screen. His ability to expose himself literally and figuratively and find such a raw emotional core is incredible, which makes it easy to miss the marvel of Abel Ferrara’s direction of the picture. With the aid of his wideangle handheld camera Ferrara allows Keitel to freely move around and create his own space. Often we’re just following Keitel around town, through a nightclub, dingy and dark alley or in his car listening to the radio. The script, which, according to the special features documentary, was a mere 60 pages, served as a loosely structured creative platform to allow Keitel to build his character naturally.

Ferrara captures the drug use with startling realism. The most painful scene occurs late when Keitel, already stoned out of his skull, walks into the apartment of his supplier/mistress, calmly sits down and with a slow and deliberate procedure the woman injects him with heroin. The scene is rendered so frightening to us, because we can’t help but be fascinated with the effect of what it must feel like for Keitel. Thus is the power of the film, the ability of Ferrara and Keitel to almost make us feel what it’s like to do these drugs.

In fact, the woman who administers the drug is Zoe Lund, the co-writer of the film who unfortunately had her own tragic story of addiction and overdose, a story recounted with poignancy on the special features documentary.

Ferrara’s viewpoint on the Lieutenant’s life is the same viewpoint of Martin Scorsese in many of his films – a distinctly Catholic take on the subject. The Lieutenant’s fascination with the Church and the heroic figure of Christ could be seen as an extension of Keitel’s Charlie character from ‘Mean Streets’ - a man who wants to be devout, but is unsure what that means. At the end of the film, from someone else’s point of view, his act of forgiveness for the rapists, might seem futile but as dramatized by Ferrara allows him to accept his own death with as much peace as possible.

Of course as you may know Werner Herzog has made a loose remake of Bad Lieutenant with Nicolas Cage to premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival.