This film has gotten quite a bit of attention since its Sundance best picture win, not all of it good. Much was made of the director Debra Granik’s virtual embedding in the Ozark community, of the film’s gritty, authentic realism. But I heard Monsieur Porterfield give a rather arch assessment of the film. Is he simply jealous of its success? Or was Sundance mistakenly dazzled by Frozen River part deux? I decided to see for myself.

The plotline is somewhat similar: a drug-dealing father runs off and leaves his family to fend for themselves. But in this case the slack is taken up by the teenage daughter (well played by Jennifer Lawrence). She fights to feed and care for her two younger siblings as well as her mentally-ill mother, barely getting by on squirrel meat and hand outs from neighbors. The breaking point comes when the sheriff delivers the news that their father has put the house and land up for bail. Faced with the loss of their home, and desperate to survive, she unflinchingly goes after him, and her search brings her into violent conflict with the local meth-dealing clan.

Despite some narrative parralels I wouldn’t really equate Winter’s Bone and Frozen River. The greatest similarity is the anchoring performances of the leads, in the previous case Melissa Leo’s Oscar-nominated turn, in this case Jennifer Lawrence. The sombre, clipped dialogue doesn’t give her much to work with but Lawrence brings a compelling depth to the role. Compared to the flinty women she comes up against, with faces cut like granite, she would seem to be at a disadvantage. But Lawrence draws a quiet strength from a deeper well, and the subtle emotions flitting across her face make her seem somehow more formidable than the heartless folk around her.

Perhaps the greatest difference is in the visual style – Winter’s Bone trades up. Instead of shaky, tinny video we get elegant compositions of silvery blues and grays. I heard the DP paid out of pocket to help finance the film, and his commitment to the material shows in the care he took. It looks beautiful.

Despite these strengths I can see where Porterfield is coming from. There is a borrowed feeling about the whole enterprise, as if Granik dared to go only so far. We never get an insider’s sense of how or why the community functions as it does, and treats with such cruelty a struggling young woman who only wants to care for her family.

For more go to wintersbonemovie.com.

A fan’s portrait of the singer and musician Billy Paul, this documentary by a Swedish team brings Continental appreciation to a quintessentially American story.

Loose in structure, the film is based around the crew’s travels with Billy Paul as he tours the world. Though he is well into his seventies he’s still got it, and there are some great live performances as well as more intimate, unrehearsed improvisatory singing.

The other threads of the story – making it as a Black man in America, making it in the cutthroat music industry, dealing with drug addiction and infidelity – are handled by Billy Paul with the candor and grace that is earned with age. Equally as compelling is his wife, manager, and life partner Blanche Williams, who has been by his side through it all. Fans such as Questlove add more measured commentary and some comic relief.

Overall the film is a bit rambling and slow, and it lacks a decisive narrative. But the music buffs in the audience didn’t seem to mind, and everyone grooved to his iconic Me & Mrs. Jones. We were lucky enough to see a 35mm print, which added luscious shadowy tones and a seventies flair to the film’s look (supplemented by archival footage). I’m not sure how the film will translate on a smaller, digitized screen, but I guess that’s my reward for trekking out to BAM (smile).

Watch the trailer for Am I Black Enough for You?

Cold Weather, the latest feature from director Aaron Katz, could best be described as a mumblecore detective movie (emphasis on the mbcr part). The story is set in Portland, Oregon, Katz’ hometown, and the grey, rainy, rottingly lush landscape suits this genre. My favorite scenes were simple and subtle evocations of place that had their own naturally ominous vibe (from swooping seagulls to cascading waterfalls). It’s unfortunate that the film doesn’t quite deliver on this promise but it makes some interesting detours along the way.

The story, as such, centers on a pair of siblings (brother-sister) who awkwardly live together. Their relationship is, and remains, ambiguous though. In the first scene I thought they were dating, and felt sort of creepy when I realized they were related. But to my credit they don’t fight or talk like siblings.

The story is slow to start but picks up when the brother’s ex-girlfriend comes to town. Though a forensic science dropout he’s still interested in detective stories, and when his ex fails to show up at a party he barely needs coaxing to launch an investigation. His colleague at the ice plant (what?) plays Watson to his Sherlock, and their scenes of bumbling sleuthing are the most memorable of the film. Unfortunately the buddy disappears and the sister takes over as sidekick.

It suffices to say that the ex is involved in illegal shit that gets her into trouble, and that the siblings get involved. But after a nicely sustained second act, plot takes an unfortunate backseat to the inane “conversations about nothing” that are a staple of mumblecore. It’s a shame, really, because Katz is a visual, methodic, and talented director. I just wish he’d leave the hipster world behind.

A highlight is the ace cinematography by Andrew Reed. He really shows the nuance of light and tone that the RED camera is capable of (I imagine much of their budget went to the camera and lighting departments). Katz also elicits some solid performances from his actors. They do much with what they’re given. I just wish they were given more to work with. Though it may not always be hip plot is not a crime.

Watch the trailer for Cold Weather.

A hipster walkabout. Plaid-wearing slacker Max wins a Caribbean cruise, but shortly before sendoff gets dumped (vaguely) by his gal, leaving him to cruise solo. By the time the boat docks in Jamaica he is hungry for an authentic experience, and takes off to a remote beach with an old cat he meets at a chicken shack. He’s robbed off everything – shoes, passport, money, dignity – and tries to make his way to the embassy in Kingston. Shenanigans ensue.

I like how this film turns a hipster’s typical identity on its head – rather than being the one in the know, the cool cat, in Jamaica he’s just another white man – the butt of jokes and the target of thieves. He makes tepid contact with some locals, many who help him out, but overall there’s a baffled cultural divide between him and everyone else. It’s what’s exhilarating, and exhausting, about traveling, and the film nicely captures that. Sean Bones, the musician who plays Max, gamely goes along with this setup, and his many missteps got big laughs from the audience. But the film misses a bit of an opportunity to send-up hipsters. It seemed that their sympathies lie with Max and his ilk, and parts of the film had an insider, wink-wink sort of feel.

The scenes on the cruise ship, ironically, had an almost existential authenticity. Max wanders the halls in silence, and the daily routines of the boat have a narcotic effect. His loneliness is palpable. In the absence of an audience of his peers he is adrift. There is a wonderful bit by the film’s sound recordist Kevin Bewersdorf as a creepy Gatsby-type who stalks Max. But mostly he is alone, mechanically eating, staring out of portholes, and donning his “formal” white blazer and jeans for evenings. This is the only time in the film I felt anything for his character. Once on the island his melancholy lifts, replaced by Raybans and a smirk. As they say – no shirt, no shoes, no problem!

For more info visit wahdodem.com.

I opened my jaunt through BAMcinemaFEST with Putty Hill, a sad, tense, and at times moving portrait of a community in mourning. More than anything Putty Hill is a film about place, in this case poor, maligned Baltimore. Lately it seems the post-industrial cesspool of choice for cinematic purposes. The question of Baltimore’s “reality” is a defining one in Putty Hill. Director Matthew Porterfield’s answer seems clear in his precise aesthetic, and the film is coherent and strong. Whether it entirely works (or works for you) is a different question.

The film centers on a largely white, working class community mourning a young man who died of a heroin overdose. That there is a funeral happening seems incidental though – I suspect that Porterfield’s aesthetic skews toward mumbly, aching, sometimes uncomfortably long scenes; a script flapping loosely in the distance like laundry on a clothesline; an “objective” eye that is actually supremely and morally subjective. There may be nonprofessional actors but to me there is no such thing as a nonperformance – you put a camera in front of someone and they are an actor, even if they are playing themselves. This comes through in Putty Hill, to both slack and taut effect.

Some scenes are truly luminous and memorable – Porterfield often uses interviews in the film to draw out stories from his “characters,” and you hear him feeding them questions. But the lo-fi, almost pervy aesthetic works. The scene of the teens boozing and splashing in a creek in the forest, though chaste, drips with sexual fluids. Ditto a scene in an above-ground pool where Porterfield questions a creepy drug dealer then lingers on three nubile teenage girls. There’s little narrative purpose to these scenes, but were we supposed to be pursuing a narrative? The scenes are strung together loosely, sometimes beautifully, but without much internal drive or affect. It’s a portrait with some fresh faces but I wouldn’t exactly call it a story. I couldn’t remember a single character’s name after the film. It didn’t matter.

I did take notice of the cinematographer’s name – his work on this film is extraordinary. I was grateful for both his use of shadow and a still, composed frame. He made the art of knowing where to put the camera and lights (if there were any) look effortlessly natural. I’m sure part of this was necessity – the film was shot in just 12 days!?! – but the action is so nicely placed in the frame that I rarely felt the stillness of it. Kudos as well to the editor for his graceful and fluid transitions. The cinematography and editing really raised this film to another level.

I’d love to see where Porterfield goes from here. He claimed in the Q&A that the film is not political but I couldn’t disagree more. There isn’t a happy or promising moment in the film, and the heaviness he brings to what he deems cinematic realism belies his attitude about the community he is portraying. I thought not of Godard (like the New Yorker critic did) but of Harmony Korine. I left this film with the same nauseated feeling in the pit of my stomach that I had with Gummo. I still haven’t finished that film. But I also thought, at moments, of David Gordon Green’s George Washington, which had a good deal more heart. Seems Porterfield could go either way, and I’m curious what he’ll see in the world outside Baltimore.

I wasn’t immediately keen on seeing this film. I’ve watched “street art” docs before and they’re usually fawning affairs – jerky editing over fast tracks to capture the “edginess” of the artists and their work. But this is not that film. It is, as stated, a “street art disaster movie.”

Exit Through The Gift Shop is set in the world of street art but is actually a timeless, quasi-Shakespearian tale of betrayal, and, as such, entertaining as hell. Much to my surprise Banksy & co have made an extremely well-crafted, classic documentary with a compelling and tightly edited narrative arc.

That arc follows one Thierry Guetta, an eccentric Frenchie who has chameleoned from family man and vintage clothing shop owner to international street artist. When we first meet him he is an obsessive video enthusiast – he films EVERYTHING, from his kids to his own face in the mirror to chance los angeles encounters with celebs. His shamelessness seems a bit wacky but harmless. In a strange twist of luck he chances upon the emerging street art scene through his cousin, Space Invader, who glues mosaic videogame-like characters on buildings, corners, wherever. Thierry starts following his cousin on his nightly rounds and of course filming his installations. This proves his entree into what will soon be a global (and commercial) art movement.

Thierry becomes obsessed with rising street artist Banksy and eventually begins following and filming him as well. Thierry has built up some sort of tepid street cred, and like him or not his cache of footage is certainly the most complete record of their work that exists. Mostly, though, the artists grant him access (and presumably tolerate his fanboy obsession) because they think he’s making a documentary. His two closest subjects, Shepard Fairey and Banksy, see the value and potential in Thierry’s footage and encourage the project, even becoming friends with the guy along the way. But when Banksy sees a rough cut of Thierry’s film the awful truth sinks in – Thierry’s a hack. He shoots out of compulsion, not any sort of aesthetic or narrative principle (the bins of 1000s of unlabeled tapes are an editor’s nightmare). Banksy hopes to salvage the film himself, and to get Thierry off his back he sends him to L.A. to do some of “his own” art.

In a fascinating turn we watch Thierry morph from sycophantic follower to Iago-like villain. His ego inflates like a zeppelin and he sinks all he has into an artist workshop and ginormous solo show, working under the stupid name Mr. Brainwash (I have to wonder, where the hell was his wife during all of this??). His work is shit, meta in its derivative tastelessness. Mr. Brainwash bites every hand that has fed him – Banksy, Shep, even Warhol – and has assistants churn out “street art” pieces as if they’re Urban Outfitters tees. There’s no talent, thought, or wit in his work, but he grows ever more narcissistic and grandiose in his rhetoric. The kicker? His show is a massive success and nets him not only the attention and validation he was craving, but a cool million and commercial contracts.

In the end Banksy and Shepard muse, honestly, on their role in creating the Thierry monster. There’s a glimmer of genuine hurt, as well as a healthy dose of ironic humor – after all this is the bullshit artworld and it’s fever-pitch game. But the real players know what’s up. He can switch mediums but a hack is a hack is a hack.

Nicole Holofcener’s new film dissects the concentric circles of guilt and unhappiness that envelope two modern Manhattan families. One the one side we have Kate, played by the director’s muse Catherine Keener (this is their fourth collaboration). She and her husband Alex buy furniture from the clueless families of recently deceased old folks and then mark up and resell the antiques at their trendy store. Alex cheerfully dismisses this as business as usual; Kate is ruthless in the moment of opportunity but otherwise wears a pained and sour expression. She combats her rising feelings of guilt by giving money to homeless people on the street, much to the chagrin of her angsty daughter Abby. The quintessential teenager, Abby nags her mom for designer jeans and picks at her acne. The tension hangs between them like modern art on their walls, the prickly trappings of their forced lifestyle.

On the other side – next door – lives Andra, a caustic old woman who is looked after by her granddaughter Rebecca. A doe-eyed radiation technician, Rebecca spends her days giving women mammograms and her evenings caring for her grandmother. Occasionally her bitchy sister Mary sashays through to yell at Andra and make fun of Rebecca’s devotion. Amanda Peet does a nice turn as Mary; though cruel, and herself laughable as an overly tan facialist, she is often the only one who speaks the truth in this film.

The class differences that separate the two families are exacerbated by the fact that Kate and Alex have bought Andra’s apartment and are (somewhat guiltily) waiting for her to die so they can renovate and enlarge their own apartment. In a cringe-worthy scene the family has Andra and her granddaughters over for dinner. Mary swills too much bourbon and has Kate walk her through the imagined renovations, speaking of Andra’s death in front of her as though she were already gone. Kate resists, at first, but when pushed reveals her guilty enthusiasm for the project. This encapsulates Kate perfectly; she may allow herself to wallow in narcissistic guilt but ultimately pursues what she wants at the expense of others. She makes flaccid attempts to correct this flaw, giving money away and attempting to volunteer, but her perception of the world throws her off; she insults a Black man by offering him her leftovers, and finds her volunteer work so sad it reduces her to tears. Pitying those around her distracts her from the coldness of her own life, from her disintegrating family and unfulfilling work.

The two families become increasingly entangled as the film winds to a subtle climax. In the end there are small moments of hope and connection but they retain a taste of bitterness. A crowd-pleaser? No. But I like the edge in Holofcener’s work. I recently learned that her stepfather was a long-time Woody Allen collaborator and that Nicole spent time on his sets growing up. It’s a tenuous link but definitely visible in her deadpan, cynical humor. She twists and twists, giving little signs of the comfort to be gleaned from relationships of any kind (family, romantic, professional). Sadness thrums beneath this cold facade and breaks through in poignant moments. I count her earlier film Lovely & Amazing as one of my favorites; the scene where a neurotic actress has her lover list her flaws while standing naked before him is classic. Such astonishing directness is on display in Please Give as well but there’s less pathos to these characters. New York plays an important, decidedly unglamorous role, the city seeming to push people together not out of connection but out of need. But this isn’t Allen’s sun-dappled Upper East Side; Kate’s moral grappling with her wealth may be disingenuous but that’s exactly the point.

The Oscar winner for best foreign feature is now in theaters stateside. A genre-defying tapestry of passion, violence, and politics, Juan José Campanella’s masterful film traces the profound consequences of an unsolved crime.

Though the film intercuts between past and present, the story begins in 1974 with the grisly rape and murder of a beautiful young woman in her Buenos Aires home. Investigator Benjamín Espósito’s gruff cynicism fades at the horror of the crime scene; he also delivers the shattering news to the victim’s husband Ricardo. Benjamin is moved by the senselessness and suffering to vow to solve the crime, unwittingly entangling himself in a fateful web that will span decades.

Campanella opens the film in 1999, with Benjamin on the eve of retirement and in the process of writing a book on the Morales case. Thus, with our protagonist’s recollections, we soon return, again and again, to the past. For Benjamin it seems to be, in many senses, more vivid and embodied than the present. Shortly before the crime Benjamin’s department brought on a new superior, the beautiful and classy Irene Menéndez-Hastings, and he fell instantly in love. This relationship becomes the enduring passion of his life; his eyes still burn with unfulfilled desire for Irene though they’ve settled into the polite rhythms of old colleagues and friends. It’s clear to us that they have lived separate lives, and not entirely by choice, and that the turning point of their meeting and the Morales case has taken an immense hold on Benjamin’s imagination and psyche.

From this starting point Campanella begins to tell both stories, that of the crime and the search for the killer, and that of the passion and restraint between Benjamin and Irene. By weaving these two epics together the film manages to be an astonishing amalgam of suspense and desire, shifting between emotional tones and plot arcs with grace. Most striking to me is the measured pacing of the film, the way Campanella allows the story to unfold by hint and suggestion, building the tension to a profound pitch. The camera is often placed behind objects or people that partially obscure the image, a visual style that complements the characters’ frustrated pursuit of truth and justice. Though it comes to a fragile but hopeful conclusion, the film’s deeper probing of fate has a lingering resonance.

O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting

fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and
poked

thee
,has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy

beauty .how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and

buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
(but
true

to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover

thou answerest

them only with

spring)

by e.e. cummings

In this engaging documentary Chinese-Canadian director Lixin Fan deftly examines a particularly Chinese experience of city-country existence and subsistence while engaging larger more universal themes of strife between family members and generations.

Last Train Home addresses the experience of migrant workers in China through the particular journey of the Zhang family. Poverty has forced the parents to leave their children to the care of their grandparents in the country while they pursue work in the city. The work to be had is menial – they’ve spent years sewing in garment factories that manufacture clothes for export overseas. The hope and salvation of their efforts is that their daughter and son will excel in school and be able to get better jobs and build better lives for themselves. The husband and wife are only able to make the arduous and expensive journey home during Chinese New Year, and thus are unfortunately estranged from the children for whom they have sacrificed so much.

The film picks up the family’s story at a difficult crossroads – their headstrong daughter Qin has decided to quit school to move to the city to work. She wants what most people want at eighteen: freedom, excitement, the chance to earn money and be independent. Of course this devastates her parents, who blame themselves for being so absent during her youth. Qin does seem bent on punishing her parents, and seems to find fleeting moments of joy and glamour in her new city life. But by the end of the film she seems headed down the same narrow, lonely road her parents traveled. Her job bussing tables at a nightclub hardly seems a step up, and the sullen, stubborn set of her face shows us that she knows it. But what can her parents do? The family accepts her choice with weary resignation, and set their hopes instead on Qin’s studious younger brother.

While the Zhang family’s story is dramatic enough on its own, Fan also knows when to cut away, giving us fascinating glimpses of modern China. Bystanders share humorous asides about the oversize jeans they must sew for “fat Americans”, and speculate on China’s gold medal chances in the upcoming Olympics (shot pre-Beijing). The camerawork complements this approach, lingering on scenes of beauty and banality with equal relish. We really see the duality of this story – pictoresque shots of trains traveling through snowcapped mountains to the pitiful heaps of denim that pile on the factory floor. Lixin Fan has created a timely and moving portrait of a family – and nation – in a time of incredible growth, with all the excitement and trouble that attends modernity.