BLACK SHEEP AT IMAGE+NATION XX

(Montreal’s 20th Annual LGBT Film Festival)


A few years back, a short film I directed was screened at the Image+Nation film festival as part of the “Local Heroes” series. It was a fantastic honour and also incredibly surreal. I had been attending the festival for years at that point and I suddenly found myself changing roles from the spectator to the guy standing in front of the screen at the Parisian theatre, introducing the film that was about to run. I knew even then that being a part of this festival meant my film would be seen by a gracious and appreciative audience. Flash forward to a few years later; I have not even been to the festival since CANOEING (my film) screened. The following year, I was already heavily into establishing Black Sheep Reviews and I just couldn’t find time for the festival. So when I went back this year, I experienced a bizarre déjà vu like sensation. It was a Saturday night and I was alone – ordinarily not an exciting combination. It wasn’t long before my apprehension about being the only single guy in the room disappeared entirely though. It was impossible to feel alone when a nearly packed room full of men surrounded me. The best part about it – everyone there was gay (or at the very least, gay-friendly) and there to indulge their love of the cinema. With that strong a commonality filling the room, it no longer even mattered that the movie wasn’t any good.


A gay cinephile is subjected to straight imagery and storyline most of the time they sit down to a movie. So when nothing but gay-themed films are amassed to be screened in succession throughout a queer film festival, the need to see characters that breathe the same air we do is as high as Amy Winehouse in the morning. The danger one runs into in festivals such as these is that, with perhaps limited films to choose from during the selection process, the risk of rushing to a mediocre film is much greater. Only here, even mediocre is better than nothing at all. That said, sub-par is still just that. Enter THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GREY – the first of three films I caught at this year’s festival and certainly not an encouraging sign of what was to come. Oscar Wilde’s literary classic has been cinematically attempted before but this time it has been modernized as well. Orphan turned millionaire, Dorian (David Gallagher) is in the prime of his life. If it weren’t enough that he was rich, he’s also got a baby face that gets the attention of everyone who sees him. He could have anyone he wants but he makes it very clear that he could never sleep with another man - that is, until he does so later that evening. Gallagher is way out his league here as a classical contemplation on obsession with youth; ironically, he lacks maturity to make his actions believable. Meanwhile, director Duncan Roy also fails as he adapts the tale to expose the current climate within the global gay community where youth is equated with perfection and the unattainable. Relying on unnecessary split screen tricks and flashes of highlighted dialogue spread across the screen to prove his point (I particularly enjoyed the one where the word, “AIDS” was cut in to tell the audience that one character was suffering from the disease as if we couldn’t have known from the horrifically tacky makeup on his face), he lacks the confidence in his own direction to convince us that he believes the lesson he’s teaching. The whole thing spirals into a mess of horrible acting and predictability that begs for an end to come quickly. By the way, it doesn’t come quick enough.


From recontextualizing for modern times to actual progression comes BREAKFAST WITH SCOT (that isn’t a typo),the first gay-themed film to be fully endorsed by the National Hockey League. Director Laurie Lynd presents this Canadian film with as many American cinema conventions as possible. This is a bright, sitcom style picture in the same vein as TRICK or MAMBO ITALIANO. It can be very endearing and it can be very funny (thanks mostly to 12-year-old Noah Bennett as Scot) but it fails when it tries to be more than it is. Scot’s mother has just died and he finds himself placed with his mom’s ex-boyfriend’s brother, Sam (Ben Shenkman) and his lover, Ed (Tom Cavanagh). Ed is in sports news and lives a closeted life so when an effeminate child enters his life unwanted, he takes it upon himself to steer the child in a more masculine direction. I do agree that Scot needed a lesson or two about being aware of how his behavior could incite others to taunt, tease or even hurt him but Ed’s coaching taught the boy shame. As if shame weren’t enough for his future therapist to have to work on, Scot also has a horrible example of love between men to learn from. Ed and Sam are one of the most loveless gay couples I have ever seen in a gay film. They act more like roommates who barely like each other. They rarely look at each other and never consult each other on how to deal with Scot. Ed even goes so far as to call Scot Sam’s problem as it is his brother’s responsibility after all. This is clearly meant to define the relationship between Ed and Scot but it shows Ed as entirely disrespectful of his partner and just all around selfish and despicable. Ultimately, I learned that the only place flame(r)s have in hockey is in Calgary. (Get it? Flamers? Calgary Flames? C’mon … it’s a gay hockey joke!)


The centerpiece film of the festival was French director, André Téchiné’s LES TEMOINS (THE WITNESSES). As a centerpiece, it certainly embodied the space with its depth and honesty. It begins with the birth of many a new thing. A new novel is being written; a new baby is being born; and a new move to Paris is the beginning of the end for Manu (Johan Libéreau). At 20, Manu has come to Paris to start what he believes will be a long and exciting life. He makes friends almost as quickly as he drops his pants for strangers in a park. Amongst these friends are Adrien (Michel Blanc), an older gentleman who is instantly taken by his boyish grin, Sarah (Emmanuelle Béart), a writer and friend of Adrien’s who is always wearing a different shade of yellow, and Mehdi (Sami Bouajila), a police officer and Sarah’s husband. Along with Manu’s sister (Julie Depardieu), this group will play witness to the first reported cases of H.I.V and A.I.D.S. but not before they get to enjoy themselves and the simple pleasures life offers them. Téchiné splits his film into three acts. In the first, boat rides are taken, picnics are had and affairs inevitably happen. There are moments of joy and moments of drama, all of which become utterly meaningless by the time the second act commences and A.I.D.S becomes everything. Being new and frightening, the disease drives some into isolation and blurs the lines between fear and feeling, leaving some wanting to reach out, unsure of what might happen if they do. By presenting the onset of A.I.D.S. so directly, Téchiné not only tells the story of those who first witnessed the horrors of the disease but also forces the audience to witness these same horrors in a day when many feel the disease to be no longer a threat. And so he leaves us with an important message - we must turn back to witness again what is still ongoing.

Attending Image+Nation this year was eye opening. Not only was it inspiring to see such high attendance and an exciting schedule but at 20 years old, the festival is just the right age to understand its own identity while remaining open to new cultural movements. Organizers Charlie Boudreau and Katharine Setzer are still in line with what their audience loves after many years and they make sure to present diverse films that are both playful and pensive. (By the way, there are plenty of films for girls and those in between genders as well – I just didn’t catch any for this article.) On a more personal note, the Image+Nation reminded me of a community I once belonged to and showed me that I could go back at any time.

NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN

Written and Directed by Joel & Ethan Coen


Llewelyn Moss: Can’t help but compare yourself to the ol’ timers. Can’t help but wonder how’d they do in these times.

The Coen brothers have been making movies for over 20 years now. NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN is their twelfth feature together. While they were once considered princely collaborators held at the highest esteem by film enthusiasts the world over, they have recently been the victims of their own identity crisis. Caught between their signature exploration of all things quirky and abnormal found in the parts of America thought to be forgotten and the demanding pressures of delivering bankable Hollywood fare, the Coen’s finished by delivering sub-par work that tarnished their lustrous reputation. The film enthusiasts thought they might have lost great talents to Hollywood while Hollywood wasn’t even sure they wanted them. What were these "aging" filmmakers to do? They could have polished off another Tom Hanks picture and crossed their fingers. They could have appealed to their fans and told another tale of the idiosyncrasies of those living in the middle of nowhere. They could have tried appeasing both parties by attempting THE BIG LEBOWSKI 2. Instead, they did none of these things. No, instead, the Coen brothers crafted a film that is unlike any film they have ever made and is also perhaps the best film they’ve ever made.


Translating Cormac McCarthy’s novel about the relationship between the hunter and the hunted to the screen may be smoothest decision these boys have made for years. Not only does it allow for the brothers to explore the grim sides of characters consumed by money and an unnerving peace derived from killing, but NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN also leaves the door open for an interpretive commentary on the Coen’s career itself. Allow me to explain by painting a picture from the film. Llewellyn Moss (Josh Brolin) aims his rifle at an unsuspecting animal grazing alongside the herd. He is right now in charge, in control, the hunter. He fires and misses, thus beginning his steady descent into ruin. He moves toward the spot where his prey once stood only to find the site of a drug deal massacre. Here, he innocently stumbles upon an enormous amount of money. He picks it up and goes without realizing the hell that is about to be brought upon him. He inadvertently becomes the hunted. He spends the remainder of the film calculating and executing different attempts to regain the superior position he once held. The comparisons are subtle and come about naturally rather than existing as the initial basis for the film to grow out of, reinforcing their genuine nature. I could explain my logic behind this analogy but that would be very un-Coen like.


Another consistency throughout the Coen Brothers’ careers is the elevated caliber of talent they attract to their diverse projects. With their writing at top of its game, performances by Brolin, Javier Bardem and Tommy Lee Jones are pushed to the heights of their potential. Moss is a quiet man, focused and constantly thinking about what his next play will be. He has no time for ego, only function, and though most of his motivation is to avoid drawing attention to himself, Brolin’s interpretation cannot help but capture our notice. For the second time this year (in conjunction with his slimy crooked cop turn in AMERICAN GANGSTER), Brolin reinvigorates his skills by inhabiting Moss fully as an instinctual and reactionary being. While Jones is also impressive as a police officer resigned to following the action without any possibility of curbing the outcome, it is Bardem’s performance as Anton Chigurh that will leave audiences with a haunting chill after experiencing it. His portrayal of a psychopathic hunter is both disturbing and riveting. This is a man who enjoys torturing his victims mentally by asking them questions meant to expose the inconsistencies in the way they live their lives before ushering them out of this world. He abides by some form of ethical code that only makes sense in his own mind and fully justifies his killings. His adherence to this code is what sends him to an internal state of ecstasy as he chokes a man and stares intently at the ceiling. The hunter is always frightening but Bardem is worse; he’s unsettling.


NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN is entirely disconcerting but is somehow still a tranquil experience. There is a normality amidst the unrest that thrives in the plain, natural manner in which the story unfolds. The chase is constantly surprising without ever seeming forced. Each move made makes perfect sense but is not seen coming. On this level, even their formal execution of this film speaks to the trajectory of their career. Who knew that leaving quirk behind for harrowing humour and a story that serves itself instead of as a platform for character would invigorate the Coen’s method and assert their place as two of the greatest American filmmakers operating in a country thought not to have any place for the them? I like to think they did. In doing so, they have also made a movie for a sharp adult audience in a country bent on catering to all things youthful and disposable.

LARS AND THE REAL GIRL

Written by Nancy Oliver
Directed by Craig Gillespie


Dagmar: Sometimes I get so lonely I forget what day it is and how to spell my name.

Novice film director, Craig Gillespie, would like you to meet Lars Lindstrom (Ryan Gosling). Lars lives in a small, northern American town where everyone knows each other. Lars works in a dreary office where the most excitement revolves around his cubicle-mate’s missing action figures. He lives next door to his brother and pregnant sister-in-law (Paul Schneider and Emily Mortimer) in what is not so much a place of his own as it is his brother’s garage. He doesn’t like to be touched; in fact, he considers the often-casual act of embracing to be painful, like the feeling your feet get when they’re thawing after a long time in the freezing cold. He lives a solitary life in the safety of his dark, underdone home, watching curiously from his window. If you were to ask him if he was lonely or if he were OK, he would say he was fine and finish the conversation before you could probe any further. Lars is that guy that everyone always knew had problems but no one was willing to put aside their own long enough to help. In LARS AND THE REAL GIRL, Gillespie is more than happy to introduce you to Lars Lindstrom, if only so someone can look at him instead of away from him and see this beautiful human being that has been ignored for far too long.


There is one person in Lars’s life that doesn’t look away. Her name is Bianca. Bianca allows Lars to be himself and loves him for who he is. The only problem with Bianca is that she isn’t real. She arrived at Lars’s door one day in a large wooden box after he ordered her online six weeks earlier. She is made of plastic, has real hair and is anatomically correct. Even though she is designed for sex play, Lars brings her to life for a safe return of love. It is funny at first but it quickly becomes horribly awkward. Suddenly, those that were thought to be closest to Lars realize that they allowed for this to happen by not stepping in earlier. Upon covert psychological analysis (by Patricia Clarkson in a stoic, frank performance that is brutally honest while always sensitive), Lars is diagnosed as having a delusion. Maybe he believes that if people see him with Bianca they will stop judging him for being so pathetically lonely. Maybe it’s as simple as he just wanted someone to talk to. No matter what the reason that led to this mental snap though, Bianca’s arrival is the best thing that could have happened to Lars and to everyone who knows him. Despite the minor inconvenience of her being inanimate, her relationship with Lars brings him back to life.

LARS AND THE REAL GIRL is bravely independent. Gillespie has taken Nancy Oliver’s script/psychological case study and ensured that we as viewers are never allowed to look away from Lars, no matter how uncomfortable we may be. That said, the film experience itself is certainly not an easy one. Lars is not a clumsy yet endearing kind of awkward. He is a man with real problems and rich history that is unveiled piece by piece throughout the film. Fortunately for the film and the audience, Lars is played by a young actor who is not afraid to explore the dark place Lars calls home (and I’m not talking about the dank garage where he sleeps). Gosling is sincere in his suffering, in his caring and in his instability. Both he and Gillespie never allow for Lars to drift into caricature or ridicule. The earnestness of Gosling’s performance, from his difficulty getting words out to his flinching body language, inspires genuine sympathy from the audience and saves the performance from being the farce it could have been in the hands of a lesser actor. It also elevates the film to a compelling study in humanity as the manner in which the townsfolk react to Lars and Bianca says novels about their decency and compassion or lack thereof.


LARS AND THE REAL GIRL is sure to repel some but is extremely cathartic if you allow for it to work its magic on you. Even “magic” is not the right word as there is nothing magical about this movie. Considering it’s about a relationship between a man and a blowup doll, it is shockingly real. Loneliness is real. Mental anguish is real. Bianca may not be real but the love Lars feels for her is and the experiences that led to this delusion are valid and should not be ignored. Perhaps it isn’t just that Lars needed someone to talk to or someone to have as a standing Saturday night date. Perhaps Lars created Bianca to show himself that he truly deserved love despite it never showing its face to him before. In doing so, maybe he would learn that he already had an abundance of it.

AMERICAN GANGSTER

Written by Steve Zaillian
Directed by Ridley Scott


Frank Lucas: The loudest one in the room is the weakest one.

That’s some solid advice from an unflappable, businessman/innovator who also happens to house an unshakable tyranny beneath his nondescript black overcoat. The man is Frank Lucas – a North Carolina-born crime boss who sold top quality heroine at discount-store prices to the good people of Harlem in the late 1960’s and ‘70’s. The advice would have been better taken than given as one loud moment, one indulgence in pride and riches, would ultimately lead to his unraveling. Having accepted an innocent gift from his beautiful wife, Lucas arrived at boxing title bout in a pimped-out chinchilla fur coat and matching fedora. All eyes were drawn to the man who dressed with such impeccable flare and had better seats than some of the highest profile gangsters in all of New York City. One of these sets of eyes belonged to Richie Roberts, a Jersey detective who was heading a covert task force determined to make big moves in the war on drugs. Before this, Richie didn’t even know whom he was hunting but now he at least knew where to start looking. That moment is now a pivotal scene in Ridley Scott’s AMERICAN GANGSTER, a juxtaposition of Lucas’s rise and demise offset against the blind pursuit to bring his untouchable operation to its knees.


AMERICAN GANGSTER is (aside from seeming like a blatant attempt on Scott’s part to latch on to some of the residual success from Scorsese’s return to glory with THE DEPARTED) an exploration of the vast field of gray between what is supposed to be the clear black and white ends of the law spectrum. Lucas (a fiercely calculated Denzel Washington) hands out turkeys to his Harlem brethren while getting their children hooked on some of the purest heroine on the streets. Roberts (a disheveled and determined Russell Crowe) refuses to play into the dirty cop stereotype, even going so far as handing close to a million dollars into his superiors, but disrespects his ex-wife and disregards his responsibilities as a father. Still, both see themselves as examples that should be followed because they follow a strict life code built on core American values like integrity and hard work. What neither understands about themselves or each other is that abiding by such a rigid set of guidelines for a successful life touches every facet of your image, from where you live to what you eat for dinner to how you treat your family. Not to mention, while they spend so much time defining themselves as model Americans, they lose their individuality.


Both Washington and Crowe are impressive performers, each boasting past experience that would make them clear choices for the roles they were cast as in AMERICAN GANGSTER. Washington, having done twisted and unpredictably violent in TRAINING DAY, now takes a more stoic approach to evil as he is unflinching even when lighting someone on fire only to shoot them in the head seconds later. (I guess he just needed to be sure his last moments alive were spent in agony.) Crowe, having played the manly cop in L.A. CONFIDENTIAL, brings a certain nervous uncertainty to the authority figure icon. Each is capable of carrying a film on his own and, in AMERICAN GANGSTER, they each essentially have to as the two share the screen for what amounts to maybe ten minutes. In what is perhaps Scott’s greatest movie magic trick, he splits the film into two distinct pieces that exist on their own but depend on each other for purpose. While Roberts runs around the city chasing after Lucas, he never knows that it is Lucas he is actually gunning for. At the same time, Lucas never knows Roberts is after him until it is too late.


All that stands between Crowe and Washington now is Ridley Scott. There is no contesting AMERICAN GANGSTER’s ferocity but its dynamism is severely overrated. Good cops and bad cops have been done to death (although none nearly as delicious as the sleazy turn by Josh Brolin as the crooked cop ringmaster) and the same can be said for bad guys who love their mothers. By now, we all know the world is gray but strong performances, a sharp 70’s visual style and companion soundtrack do their best to distract us from seeing that we aren’t really learning anything new. The action moves into the clubs. The threads are slick; the tunes are smooth; the club is definitely swinging but the scene is getting tired.

DAN IN REAL LIFE

Written by Pierce Gardner and Peter Hedges
Directed by Peter Hedges


Marie: You are smooth.
Dan: No, I’m not smooth. I’m Dan.

If you’re anything like me, smooth and single do not go together. You see someone you like, rare enough as that can be, and you want to say something but you don’t. Or maybe you do say something but it ends up being perhaps the least intelligent thing you’ve ever said in your life. More often then not though, you stare from afar and admire without having to deal with taking that which most agree is the only way to get anywhere in life – a risk. You can’t blame a guy for being a little frightened though. Maybe he’s been burned hard before or maybe he’s trying to focus all his energy on his career. There are reasons, some valid, some not, and all of them can be interpreted as excuses rather than reason. You tell yourself you don’t need it or it isn’t the right time for you but you still wish it were happening. Any way you break it down, it’s not easy. Sound familiar? If you thought yes even just a little, then DAN IN REAL LIFE, the new comedy from director Peter Hedges, is a must-see. It will reach inside of you and somehow manage to both break and warm your heart all at once.


The Dan from the title is Dan Burns (Steve Carell), an advice columnist who is admired for his insight into living a balanced, fulfilling and morally uplifting life. Four years or so before the film opens on Dan waking up to his day, he lost his wife and love of his life. After that tragedy, Dan was left to raise their three daughters alone. Between that and focusing on his career, finding love again was not one of Dan’s priorities. And so he became more functional than feeling. Removed from the power of intimacy, Dan no longer knows what it means to be that close to someone and has resigned himself to never knowing that again. That is, until he meets Marie (Juliette Binoche) in a book and tackle shop in Connecticut on a quiet morning. They’re interaction is casual, comfortable and it catches both of them off guard. There is only one problem really. She is already seeing someone. Unfortunately for all involved, that someone is Dan’s brother, Mitch (Dane Cook). His entire family has come up to their parents’ country home for their yearly visit and Dan must now spend the weekend pining and yearning for the fleeting feeling he had with Marie that morning. It only lasted an hour or so but it only took that long to awaken Dan’s heart from its coma.


With so many family members to deal with (John Mahoney and Dianne Wiest are at the helm), DAN IN REAL LIFE does drift away from its grander purpose from time to time. While the cyclone of kids and parents and aunts and uncles makes for trying times for Dan, Hedges also uses it unnecessarily as a means to distract, with the presumption that it would ultimately make for a more complete film. Luckily, Hedges has got Carell to carry the heavy burden. It is a pleasure to watch Steve Carell come into his own more and more with every picture he makes (despite the occasional EVAN ALMIGHTY-sized misstep). He is charismatic, charming and obviously a sharp humorist. As Dan, he is also self-deprecating, awkward and scared. Carell is the rare comedian who pushes himself to find character in his roles rather than rely solely on his comedic instincts and established persona. Perhaps more importantly, he is entirely relatable as Dan. Whether he’s flopping down on the cot in the laundry room where he is subjected to sleep as the only single adult at this reunion or fidgeting around the kitchen, unable to stand still in his anxiety, Dan is every guy who has even been unsure of himself and felt alone in the crowd. Carell gives Dan so much heart that he becomes the heart of the film itself at the same time.


I wondered after seeing the film if I enjoyed the it as much as I did, despite its slight shortcomings (Juliette Binoche – I know you might like to lighten up every now and then but I don’t recommend it unless there is chocolate involved), because of where I am in my life. Would someone who has found that someone else derive as much meaning and comfort from this film? I can’t say. What I can say, as someone who knows what it means to be lonely, DAN IN REAL LIFE knows what it means to be surprised by life and love and how these moments and people need to be appreciated and cherished. It also knows that anyone who might be feeling lonely on any given day or for months at a time needs to be reminded that surprises still happen.

BLACK SHEEP @ THE FESTIVAL NOUVEAU CINEMA

Every fall in Montreal, a seemingly small festival sneaks in with the colder weather. I had never paid it much mind in the past. It always appeared as too experimental for my taste. This year though, I was asked to cover the festival and interview directors so I had to put my entirely unfounded apprehension aside and deal with my fear of the experimental. If only I had done so sooner. As it turns out, there is very little that is experimental about the FESTIVAL NOUVEAU CINEMA. The festival is dedicated to showcasing new and original works from the independent field of cinema. New films by Denys Arcand, Brian De Palma and Gregg Araki were screening. Films that were already working the festival circuit, like PERSEPOLIS and LARS AND THE REAL GIRL, were screening. And then there were the three films I caught that I am now presenting to you – FUGITIVE PIECES, DEFICIT and I’M NOT THERE. One is by an experienced director whose works are only getting bigger all the time; one is by an actor-turned-first-time-director who should perhaps stick to what he’s already good at; and the last is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.


Jeremy Podeswa. The name meant nothing to me when I was asked to schedule an interview with him to discuss his new film, FUGITIVE PIECES. The night before the screening of the film, I sat down to watch a season two episode of SIX FEET UNDER, entitled “The Invisible Woman.” The opening credits were rolling and there it was, “Directed by Jeremy Podeswa.” I paused for a moment to grasp the coincidental timing of it all as this was just the next episode in line on my trek to rewatch the series. By the time the episode, in which a woman dies alone in her home and no one discovers her for three weeks, was finished, I could not wait for the screening. Podeswa not only allows his characters to be flawed, he encourages it. At the same time, he does not lay blame on the characters for their troubles but rather forgives them and gives them the space to understand themselves. FUGITIVE PIECES is sweeping and romantic but still hard and honest. When Jakob is a young boy (Robbie Kay) in Poland, he is hidden under a table by his mother before Nazis break into the home, kill both his parents and leave with his older sister. He survives the ordeal and the war but years later (now played by Stephen Dillane), as he struggles with relationships and himself in Canada, it is clear, he is still hiding under that same table and praying for it all to end. The film defines itself by its nuanced performances, tight storytelling and unorthodox editing, choosing to tell both Jakob’s story as a boy and as an adult simultaneously instead of one after the other. The result is an intimate portrayal of his life with an understanding of how he became who he did and desperate longing for him to realize whom he could be.


Gael Garcia Bernal is a talented actor. He brings depth and innocent curiosity to his performances. The roles he takes on are often socially relevant and insightful contemplations on human interaction. After so many years in the business, making the move to directing would seem like a natural progression for someone of his pedigree. Somehow, this is simply not the case. His first feature, DEFICIT, is aimless. Any point it thinks it might be trying to make is entirely undermined by lack of driving action in the plot and the exhausted clichés that are used as character definition. Bernal stars in his own movie as Cristobel, a spoiled, young college student who has come to his Mexico home for the weekend to party it up with some friends. He gets to the house. His sister is already there with friends. His friends show up. They party by the pool. They drink and do drugs. The boys try to get with the girls. Someone almost overdoses. He cries about how he’s lonely and can’t get into the college of his choice. People go home. The movie ends. The young party goers all seem to be having a grand time but why would I want to watch this? Quite frankly, I’d rather be at such a party than watch other people have it. Throughout the day, Cristobel makes looks and comments at the house staff so it would appear as though he is trying to point out the disdain between classes. It is so plain a statement, so obvious in its execution and so underdeveloped that it hurts the film more than it helps. Why bother trying to make a point when you’re not quite sure what point it is you’re trying to make?


And then there was that Dylan movie everyone’s talking about. This is the one where six different people play different incarnations of the American icon from his illustrious life. There is no sequence to the story; there are no boundaries in the casting. Todd Haynes’ I’M NOT THERE is simply the most accessible experimental film I have seen and the most original film of this year so far. Throughout his life, Bob Dylan has filled many roles. He has been a folk-singer, a sellout, a husband, an outlaw, a hero and, at one point, he was someone he was not. Much like FUGITIVE PIECES, Dylan’s story is told in a fragmented fashion to paint the complete picture of this one complex man. Each fraction of his life is a story unto itself but intrinsically linked to the whole and each features a different actor playing the Dylan part. Albeit fine performances are delivered by Christian Bale, Heath Ledger and even Richard Gere, it is Cate Blanchette’s performance that is most memorable and most moving. She plays Dylan at a very low point in his life. His fans worldwide have turned on him, accusing him of being a sellout and going against everything he ever stood for. He has also traded sleep for drugs, making it near impossible to stop shaking his leg. In this time of confusion, all he is trying to get across is that he never believed he could change the world with a song despite everyone wanting him to do just that. Blanchette plays him as righteous, put upon and fragile and she is a marvel in this man’s shoes. I’M NOT THERE implies that Dylan is at the same time none of these people and still all of them at once. Haynes’ direction of the brave effort is genuine in intention, not the least bit pretentious and creatively alive – just like the man whose portrait it paints so beautifully.

As the festival has now wrapped, I can look back and honestly say that covering it – from morning press screenings to free passes to interviewing directors to mocha javas in between – has made me feel more like a legitimate film critic than I ever have before. Funny how being a part of something designed to distance itself from the mainstream managed to make me feel so included.

THE DARJEELING LIMITED

Written by Wes Anderson, Roman Coppola and Jason Schwartzman
Directed by Wes Anderson


Jack: I wonder if the three of us could have been friends in real life – not as brothers but as real people.
Peter: I don’t know. We probably would have had a better chance.

Let’s make an agreement. Wes Anderson is a talented filmmaker. He has a distinct vision that may not be for everyone’s taste but his films are always colorful and his writing is always exploratory. His characters are usually bizarre exaggerations of downtrodden souls struggling to get back to the surface. The situations they find themselves in are far removed from the realities of the audiences that flock to enjoy them. The same faces reappear in film after film, from Bill Murray and Owen Wilson to Anjelica Huston and Jason Schwartzman, making his films feel at times like you’re hanging with the cool crowd. Their cool factor is only upped when they find themselves staring directly ahead in close-ups in the foreground of the screen – one of Anderson’s signature visual styles. All of these factors either delight Anderson’s numerous fans by appealing to their desire to revel in offbeat humour or repel his detractors who consider his work to be pretentious and empty. Keeping with the film’s spirit of healing and progress, I propose we leave what we know of Anderson behind us and open our minds to THE DARJEELING LIMITED – his most accomplished and satisfying film. Can we agree to that?


Wilson is Francis, the matriarch of sorts to Shwartzman’s Jack and Adrien Brody’s Peter. He has convinced his two brothers to join him on a spiritual journey through India aboard a train by the name of The Darjeeling Limited. The last time they were all together was a year prior, at their father’s funeral. None have healed fully from the experience and it is Francis’ intention to reconnect the threesome so that they can all move forward together. Albeit a well-intentioned concept, the damage done by their family dynamics throughout the years has made it near impossible for them to trust each other. Whenever one is absent from the trio, the two remaining take the opportunity to share something they don’t want the missing brother to know. It’s as if they are choosing the brother they know will handle whatever news they are imparting better. Realistically though, they each know that the moment they leave the room, the brother they told will tell they brother they avoided telling everything. In that regard, they do want to share with the group but they just don’t feel comfortable doing it directly. They play these boyish games while rejecting the need for Francis’ persistent mothering but whether they are buying poisonous snakes at village markets or chasing each other through adjoining train cars, it is clear that there are still many stops before maturity.


When the brothers are not busy sifting through the manipulation, they are seeking out spiritual enlightenment. With its rich tapestry of golds, blues and yellows, India makes for the perfect place for them to lose themselves with hopes of rebuilding. However, the copious amounts of extra-strength, locally found drugs the three share suggest that they aren’t quite finished numbing their pain just yet. Regardless, the journey itself and its intended purpose imply that healing is desperately needed. What the boys don’t realize is that healing can’t be forced. They visit temple after temple and partake in many a ritual hoping to put their past to rest without actually talking about or facing their very real issues. They’re trying so hard though and they clearly want it so bad, need it even. As they struggle to force it, it only seems to get further away from them. An urgency and a hope results in the viewer. These are likable guys and you want them to get what they need. In that respect, Anderson places you directly on the train along with them so that you too are along for the ride.


THE DARJEELING LIMITED is not a train wreck in the least. In fact, it is the opposite. It is a scenic ride that chugs along toward inner peace. The lull of the train serves to calm the chaos and it soothes the viewer as it does the brothers. With the train constantly moving forward, Francis, Peter and Jack will inevitably reach their destination, even though they don’t really know what that is. And with the speed it’s moving at, they can’t get off even though they might want to. Lucky for them, with Anderson wearing the conductor’s hat, there is no chance the train will be derailed.

IN THE VALLEY OF ELAH

Written and Directed by Paul Haggis


Soldier: Before I went, I would never say this, but if you ask me now, I’d say we just nuke ‘em all and watch it all turn back to dust.”

Before going to Iraq, a soldier would not likely even think this, let alone say it out loud in any serious manner. The times have changed though and eyes have seen more than any one pair should. Take Jo Anne’s husband for instance. He’s just returned from Iraq to Fort Rudd, New Mexico, a town built around its army base. You might think this would make Jo Anne very happy but, much to her dismay, this is just not the case. Instead, she doesn’t feel she still knows this changed man. When she goes to the police after he snaps a dog’s neck as punishment for biting, no one listens. Instead, they snicker at her. She is enraged but her anger is not enough to rattle any one out of their apathetic trance. Despite there being a clear need for Jo Anne’s husband to get help, there just isn’t anything to be done. He’s just another returning soldier whose mental stability has been fried under the Iraq sun. This is the side of America that is not often seen – a population exhausted by the weight of the war, be that by supporting it or questioning it or participating in it. And while the fighting is taking place overseas, writer/director Paul Haggis’ IN THE VALLEY OF ELAH aims to show America’s eyes what’s been happening in their homes while their focus was elsewhere.

IN THE VALLEY OF ELAH is Haggis’s first time directing since his Best Picture winning CRASH. In the time since then, he has gone on to work on the screenplays for CASINO ROYALE and LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA. The experience seems to have taught him some valuable lessons about subtlety. While CRASH was intense and moving, it was also contrived and convenient. The pay off may have been worth the trouble but concessions were made for the bigger emotional impact. IN THE VALLEY OF ELAH does not resort to gimmicks to make its mark. Instead, the events unfold like any good mystery, where the pieces come together to reveal that what you’ve been trying to figure out all along is really just a fraction of what’s really going on. This particular mystery begins when Hank Deerfield (Tommy Lee Jones) gets a call from the Fort Deer army base, informing him that his son has gone missing after returning from active duty. Hank has no helpful information as he didn’t even know his son had come back. It becomes clear pretty quickly that something foul has happened and that Hank didn’t know his son very well at all. Yet as he gets to know his son through the clues he comes across while searching for him, Hank realizes that he knows just as little about how the army has changed as he does his son.


IN THE VALLEY OF ELAH is able to make understated commentary about the mental and emotional burden of the Iraq war thanks mostly to Haggis’ direction of his stars, Jones and Charlize Theron. Theron is a single mother and a detective who struggles daily to prove that a woman can make just as good a detective as her sloppy male counterparts. She braves the testosterone that beats down on her from all sides but it is Deerfield’s arrival that shows her how fighting against oppression is taking away from her work. Jones achieves a similar effect on Theron’s performance. He is so strong, so internally tormented and still so unfaltering despite the overwhelming evidence that is chipping away at his impression of his great American hero of a son, that Theron cannot help but step up her game as an actress to avoid looking bland in front of the veteran. As Deerfield, Jones is the silent, proud father and husband. He’s the kind of man who cannot be around a lady while simply wearing an undershirt. He is an old-fashioned army boy in a world where he can watch unscrambled video image from a digital camera his son carried with him in Iraq. All the seedy revelations he is discovering must be made proper again and resolving his two conflicting minds becomes the challenge he needs to overcome in order to find both his son and his peace of mind. Jones is not just up for this challenge; he owns it.


With its simple tone and steady pace, IN THE VALLEY OF ELAH laments the loss of America’s blanketed support and gusto for a war that was meant to protect their way of life and freedom. It is not so much a movie designed to criticize the decision to go to war in the first place. Haggis is too smart to give that tired argument. Instead, it is an expression of grief for the damage the war has weathered on the country, its citizens and the principals that it was initially meant to protect.

EASTERN PROMISES

Written by Steven Knight
Directed by David Cronenberg


Nikolai: Nice bike. How much do you want for it?
Anna: It has sentimental value.
Nikolai: Sentimental value … I’ve heard of that.

When it comes to films made by veteran Canadian director, David Cronenberg, certain promises are expected to be kept. The name promises something dark and twisted, something gruesome and haunting, something disturbing and seductive. Cronenberg’s latest, EASTERN PROMISES, certainly makes good on all these accounts and solidifies his new, more linear but no less disconcerting approach to filmmaking. Gone are the days of surreal experiments where fetishists get off on colliding cars and the ensuing scars or twin gynecologists playing patients for patsies. Now is the time for the Russian mafia in London to be given a human touch. No, now Mr. Cronenberg is not so concerned with being bizarre as he is with being blunt. As with his last masterpiece, A HISTORY OF VIOLENCE, Cronenberg has made PROMISES into a straightforward story and morality tale, much to the dismay of film students everywhere. Fear not though, students. Accessibility does not make Cronenberg irrelevant. If anything, it means that brilliantly polished stories about the underbelly of humanity can be told without any unnecessary sentiment, allowing for them to be both provocative and bloody as all hell.


It rains just as much in Cronenberg’s London as it does in the real London. The rain ushers in the heavy yet steady hand of this director, whose work always seems to be weighed down by a looming sense of despair and discomfort. Still, though the viewer is pulled into a world where cutting the tips off of fingers and slitting throats is just as normal as a well-balanced breakfast, nothing is so simple as good and evil as absolutes. Like the sky the rain is falling from, everyone is surrounded by an ambiguous grey. Naomi Watts plays a mid-wife named Anna. On one tragic evening, Anna helps to bring a baby into the world at the expense of the very young, heroine-addicted mother’s life. She does not want to see the child fall into the system as the girl cannot be identified to find her next of kin so she makes it her mission to find the girl’s family before this can happen. It may all seem noble but her saintly act also serves to appease the pain she has felt since the miscarriage of her own child months before. She couldn’t save her baby but she can certainly try to help this one. Her search leads her directly to the door of the Russian mafia and this is where she meets Nikolai (Viggo Mortensen). At the moment, Nikolai is just the driver but he’s got hopes to one day be part of the real family. He would be perfect for the job as he is calculated and cold when he needs to be but then again not so as he also takes the time to encourage the slave sex-worker he’s just been with to find a better life. People are complicated; Cronenberg knows this and this is what gives EASTERN PROMISES its depth.


Though regular Cronenberg cinematographer, Peter Suschitzky, guides EASTERN PROMISES with a tranquil glide that sets the pace as both unnerving and engrossing, it is Mortensens’s performance as an aspiring mafioso with a nagging sense of compassion that is most memorable and moving. His face is harsh and guarded behind his dark sunglasses and beneath his slicked back, immaculately placed hair lies a mystery that is being heavily protected. His presence is daunting as he steps from a black town car, dressed to match, from his shoes to his gloves. He is naturally imposing and his icy composure and unflinching dedication to his superiors make him frightening without really trying. He is not so much trying to intimidate others into submission though but rather to keep them away. Yet there is something about him that inspires those around him to see a reason to trust him. Perhaps it is his reliability or perhaps it is just that you know once you meet him that you would rather have him on your side than on the other. Mortensen, working with Cronenberg for the second time after his tortured performance in A HISTORY OF VIOLENCE, is transformed and nearly unrecognizable as Nikolai. And while his character is extremely guarded, he still manages to find himself in a very naked position before the film’s end, in what is a shocking and exhilarating fight sequence that finds Cronenberg, as God, going after Nikolai when he is at his most vulnerable. Proving himself to be a vengeful God, Cronenberg punishes his character for allowing himself to relax for three seconds to appreciate his success.


The fight sequence is already being heralded as one for the books that will be talked about for years to come. I have a feeling we will be hearing just as much talk about Mortensen’s performance, Steven Knight’s script and Cronenberg’s direction come awards season. After setting the groundwork with A HISTORY OF VIOLENCE (which I actually do prefer over EASTERN PROMISES just because it left me with more on my mind), the mainstream film community seems finally ready to reward one of its veteran contributors. If you’re going to sell out, I can’t imagine a better way to do it.

ACROSS THE UNIVERSE

Written by Dick Clement and Ian La Frenais
Directed by Julie Taymor


“Because the sky is blue, it makes me cry. Because the sky is blue.”

Staring at a blue sky for two hours is almost required viewing to settle your mind from the visually lost schizophrenia that is Julie Taymor’s ACROSS THE UNIVERSE. How else can you undo the damage from being subjected to an exhaustingly lengthy collage of overblown imagery at the hands of an over inflated ego? I can only imagine the horror that must have swept over the executives’ faces after screening this film for the first time. It has been widely publicized that Taymor entered a creative war over the final cut of this film with her producers who wanted to release their own cut of the film. They said the film needed more focus, less experimenting as she hid behind the shield of artistic integrity. Ordinarily, I would never side with any form of censorship but perhaps she should have left her bias in the car and taken a few of the tips that were perhaps being given to her in the best interest of her film. Maybe then, ACROSS THE UNIVERSE could have told a functional story that would have captured some attention, given it some ultimate meaning and made this all-Beatles musical the magical journey it so desperately wanted to be and could have been. Or maybe it would have been worse but I can’t see how.


ACROSS THE UNIVERSE tells the story, and I say that lightly, of a young lad named Jude (Jim Sturgess), who travels across the ocean to find his father. Find him he does in absolutely no time and then he just bounces around from here to there in pursuit of nothing at all. He meets a girl (Evan Rachel Wood) and falls in love; he gets a room in New York City and paints when everybody else is either going to war in Vietnam or protesting it. A bevy of other characters are randomly introduced, bring nothing to the whole (which is paper thin as it is) and then disappear after accomplishing just as much nothing. It is all so aimless; I’m surprised my neck doesn’t hurt more from all the shaking my head did in bewilderment. The style, which can only be described as a refusal to commit to any one style, only makes it more difficult to get taken in. As a viewer, the suspended disbelief necessary to enjoy a musical as one should still requires a firm foundation. Taymor tries to establish a gritty reality with Jude working the docks in Liverpool but the leap to where the music happens, and the magic is supposed to, is always different and seldom seems appropriate. I never thought I would be begging for plausibility in a musical but this was just ridiculous


While I commend Taymor for incorporating 90% on-location singing into this musical in an attempt to pump a more real quality into the practice, I want to sit her down to talk about some other basic concepts like character, meaning and purpose (concepts she so easily incorporated into her far superior FRIDA). Surely she has seen Baz Luhrmann’s MOULIN ROUGE. Luhrmann’s film employed the same musical technique to appropriate existing lyrical content (including some by the Beatles) and contextualized it within his story of forbidden lovers. The reason his film worked is because there was a solid story driving it forward and characters that were developed through that story and their songs. ACROSS THE UNIVERSE seems more interested in its high concept usage of the Beatles repertoire that characters seem to be included so that certain songs can be included. It is certainly lovely to see a young high school cheerleader sing a slowed down version of “I Wanna Hold your Hand” to herself about a fellow cheerleader, just as it is heartbreaking to watch a young boy caught in the streets of the Detroit riots singing “Let It Be” amidst the violence but both of these potentially powerful moments and strong performances are hollowed out by their complete lack of context. How can you be expected to care when you have no idea why this story is suddenly being told? And then to find out, there was really no significant point to begin with? Without purpose, all you have are a bunch of people singing old songs on screen.


At one point, more specifically when multiple Selma Hayek’s in nurse uniforms seductively administered drugs to war patients spinning around a medical ward to “Happiness Is a Warm Gun,” I found myself wondering just how many Beatles songs were still left to be sung. When a film has no distinct purpose, it also has no clear ending in sight. I was beginning to fear that Taymor might actually turn me off the Beatles with this disaster but fortunately, the Beatles are timeless and genius and something so laughable as ACROSS THE UNIVERSE is not going to diminish their beauty. It’s like bearing witness to a bad karaoke performance of your favorite song; you cringe while it’s happening but once you hear it again for yourself, the mastery that was temporarily taken from it comes back in waves of vibrant colour and splashes of insight that touch your soul. The painful experience is easily forgotten and you ask yourself, across what universe?

BLACK SHEEP @ THE 32ND ANNUAL TORONTO INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL III

3:10 TO YUMA and INTO THE WILD


My third and final day at the Toronto International Film Festival was considerably less rushed than the previous two. In fact, I only had one film scheduled. During my manic search for tickets, I contacted a colleague at the National Post. Craig couldn’t help me with tickets but wanted to know if I would participate in the upcoming Popcorn Panel film discussion on 3:10 TO YUMA. As I love these opportunities, I said I would and found myself buying a ticket to a movie for a reasonable price and without any serious stress over whether it would be possible to get in or not for the first time all weekend. It was liberating. And so my final day in Toronto became all about casual shopping on Queen Street, a first-run movie with the regular film-going folk and a world premiere of Sean Penn’s INTO THE WILD.

Before I take a look at the films I saw that day, I want to talk a bit about what I found to be most inspiring about the entire festival. It is one thing to be surrounded by celebrities and premieres; this alone is extremely surreal. What was even more baffling to me was the number of volunteers in and around every venue at the festival and how these volunteers seemed appreciative of their place in the system. They were always courteous and smiling. They were apologetic if the wait was too long as if they cared that you might not be having the best time ever. It was near moving to see so many motivated, energized people who only got to keep their T-shirts and sneak into movies if there was any space left as payment for their time. Before each screening, several sponsors screened tags announcing their support. NBC/Universal was the official sponsor of the volunteer program and each time their tag played and announced their pride in supporting the volunteers, the crowd would erupt in genuine warmth and applause. Maybe that appreciation, plus the T-shirt, made it all worthwhile. Thank you volunteers; you were all helpful and lovely.


3:10 TO YUMA was one of those films that truly surprised me. You know the kind of movie I’m talking about; it’s that movie that you don’t really want to see but you somehow end up seeing it and go in with zero expectations of quality or what will unfold. Seeing a movie under those circumstances can either go one of two ways. Either your suspicions that it was not a movie for you are confirmed and you leave knowing you should trust your judgment next time or you leave impressed and thinking you should probably be a little more open-minded in the future. My experience was clearly the latter. 3:10 TO YUMA has an energy driving it forward that stems from its originality. This might seem a stretch to say given it is a remake of a 1957 film so I’ll elaborate. It is original much like AMERICAN BEAUTY breathed new life into the existing suburban exposition drama or the way THE DEPARTED showed us Scorcese awake for the first time in years. There is something new being brought to the table. Here, director James Mangold (WALK THE LINE) combines a quiet, introspective script (like modern Western, BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN) with a classic, straightforward story (like the Western classic, STAGECOACH) to create something visually lush that has both exhilarating action and gunfight as well as depth of character. Russell Crowe and Christian Bale are both excellent as men at different ends of the moral code. They learn from each other but have strong enough characters to begin with to not falter from their true nature without just cause. With 3:10 TO YUMA, Mangold is forcefully establishing himself as one of the best in the West.


Then there is this other Western director, whom I’m sure believes himself to be one of the best. When Sean Penn was brought on stage before the world premiere of his film interpretation of the life of Christopher McCandless, a university graduate who abandons his possessions, family and attachments in pursuit of life’s greater truths, the crowd was happy to receive him. People clapped, many cheered. However, the next audience response, for a surprise appearance by Eddie Vedder, who contributes four songs to the film, was so much more spontaneous and sincere that it made Penn’s seem almost automatic. Most of the cast, from William Hurt to Catherine Keener to Jena Malone to star, Emile Hirsch, proceeded to fill the stage. This was clearly an event. The moment quickly faded though as it became apparent within the film’s first scenes that INTO THE WILD was going to live up to its name. As McCandless rejects society and conformity, so does Penn with his style. While this does make for many beautiful shots, some entirely scenic, some involving dangerous wildlife in peaceful surroundings, the manner in which it is all strung together is ultimately pretentious. There is so much beauty but so little purpose. The numerous supporting roles come in and out throughout the film, much like the people would have on the adventures McCandless would have experienced. Only this isn’t that experience, this is a film. Consequently, many performances come across as overly dramatic and the adverse affect on the film itself is a disdain for the lead character carrying you everywhere. As McCandless, Hirsch is strong and mature but his character, as noble as he is for pursuing greater meanings in life, is not likable for the emotional pain he caused, especially when it is apparent that he is only running away from his own truths. It’s hard to respect someone who is running away while pretending to be a pioneer. Many people left before the screening had ended and when it finally did, the applause slowly but surely transitioned into a standing ovation. When I saw this, I bolted. My stomach turned seeing all these people paying lip service when a respectful applause would have been sufficient.


This was a bit of a sour note to end my festival experience on. This is the gamble though. You’re not going to like all the movies and we shouldn"t base the entire experience on its final moments. I hope to have the opportunity again next year to go, maybe for longer. For all its industry-centric catering, the Toronto International Film Festival still gave me the chance to see so many movies I was excited to see. I’ll just make sure to have a Visa gold card by this time next year so I can cut to the front of the line.