Film Notes for March 2 to 9, 1998

Film Notes for March 2 - 8, 1998

March 2

Ever wonder where alien abductees who never come back to tell us about the "probings" they've endured are taken to? DARK CITY (Alex Proyas, 1998) *** posits an answer, though this won't make itself evident till well into the film.

Expect your attention to hold until then, however, thanks to the distinctive eye candy abound (a 1950s city in perpetual darkness, those organic buildings, the rapid tunneling through memory) and vigorous editing.

DARK CITY starts off in a tizzy, and purposefully so. The clock strikes midnight and suddenly its inhabitants drift off into sleep except for a doctor played by (misplaced) Kiefer Sutherland. A prostitute has been murdered and her apparent murderer John (Rufus Sewell, a British actor to look forward to) has woken up an amnesiac. John's problems are compounded by a suspect doctor (Sutherland) who tells him to flee, an implacable detective (William Hurt) on the hunt for a serial murderer, as well as a gang of pasty-skinned bald men in trenchcoats on his tail. Not only do these so-called Strangers obviously dislike sun but one hisses about hating "moisssture" as well. Beach-types they are not.

John's discovery of the truth accompanies our own. Better yet, his new-found knowledge of and confidence in self leads him to desire again. DARK CITY is a cerebral exercise narratively but also a visually compelling rumination on memory.

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With supporting actors speaking lines in fine French but one of the English main characters speaking it far too clumsily, I was initially geographically lost as to the setting of AFTERGLOW (Alan Rudolph) **1/2. It's revealed to be Montreal, but anglophones there don't louse up their occasional French that badly.

AFTERGLOW is a slight but entertaining ensemble piece redeemed by fine acting (Julie Christie deservedly got a nom for Oscar Best Actress). Two sexless couples, one shallow and upwardly mobile, the other older, wistful and working class, do a swap. Nick Nolte's character is a philanderer, Jonny Lee Miller's seem sexually frigid; Christie's still despondent over the loss of her daughter, Lara Flynn Boyle wants to get pregnant, for an apparent lack of anything else to do (thankfully she's stopped painting): Rudolph is making parallels here, and musings about relationships abound. Significant, cohesive points in AFTERGLOW were not in evidence.

March 5

One of the nominees for Best Foreign Language Oscars, FOUR DAYS IN SEPTEMBER (Bruno Barreto, 1997) *** re-enacts the actual kidnapping in 1969 of the U.S. ambassador to Brazil, Charles Elbrick. You can't help but sympathize with Elbrick (Alan Arkin), the composed ambassador who endeavours to remain on friendly terms with his kidnappers. Due to anti-American leanings and his position's high profile, Elbrick was selected for possible worldwide attention to their cause. Most of the kidnappers wind up the sympathetic sort as well; most of them were mostly middle-class youths whose enthusiasms went the way of political ideology. The kidnappers' inexperience doesn't bode well in their efforts to elude capture by a repressive military dictatorship expert in methods beyond censorship of the press to silence its rivals. A straightforward but effective recreation of a touchstone event that set off a series of kidnappings with similar goals.

March 6

After I've seen the last of his films at the Art Gallery of Ontario's Warhol love-fest, my promise to you is a lengthier piece on his films. Wish me luck.

While watching BLOW JOB (Andy Warhol, 1963) I couldn't help but think, first with the question "Why is it taking so long?" BLOW JOB can be politely described as a close-up of a man's face while he receives the act described in the title. (Even more sterile are descriptions that this is "one of the purest examples of a reaction shot in all of cinema.") Surprisingly, something so minimal brought to mind several things - desire intimated but denied to us, voyeurism and celebrity, to name a few.

In MY HUSTLER (Andy Warhol, 1965), a client, his female neighbour and a veteran hustler vie for the attention of a young hustler. As the catty patron drunk on "water cocktails," Ed Hood almost single-handedly delivers the laughs with his jealous overprotection of his charge, whom he insists he met by using Dial-a-Hustler. Later, the hustler receives tutelage and more from the veteran.

March 7

For LONESOME COWBOYS (Andy Warhol, 1967), Warhol et al. set camp in a film set in Arizona. In what smells of myth-making, cast and crew were reportedly run out of town by conservative locals after four days of filming. Far enough to the right of the scale and this would be an understandable reaction, I suppose, considering the hijinks caught on film. Film ratings boards would have insisted on warnings of foul language, nudity and adult situations (couplings, cross-dressings, and lewd dancing, among others) for this one.

This is all in (good) fun, however, and the cast's exuberant and improvisatory horse-play is catchy. The core idea that they deviate from is that the arrival of flame-haired Viva disrupts a cowboy gang's homoerotic (this word will pop up in discussions of much of Warhol's films, I suspect) camaraderie.

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My experience of Chantal Akerman is surface and like most things, her films are probably best left for discussion by scholars and critics (not surprisingly, probably the major groups to date who have actually seen her films, but I digress).

SAUTE MA VILLE ("Blow up my town") (Chantal Akerman, 1968) is Akerman's first film, a document of a woman's disintegration beginning with chores with wild abandon leading to her suicide and the blow up of her town. In J'AI FAIM, J'AI FROID ("I'm hungry, I'm cold")(Chantal Akerman, 1984), two broke runaway Belgian girls roam Paris streets. In rapid-fire dialogue, they talk of their needs (the title translates to "I'm hungry, I'm cold"), engage in busking, finally succeeding in attaining some satisfaction, albeit comic. Akerman's droll sense of humour is apparent in both short films.

When Akerman was asked to to select a director for a series called Cinema of Our Time, she jokingly suggested herself. The result is CHANTAL AKERMAN BY CHANTAL AKERMAN (Chantal Akerman, 1996) *** which highlights some of the passages in her films as autobiographical. Akerman's best moments here are the most uncinematic, however, as she reads off her notes. There's an interesting literary mind at work here as she talks about her life and her life's work.

March 8

With a running time of three and a half hours, a wish for an intermission during THE CHELSEA GIRLS (Andy Warhol, 1966) crossed my mind prior to the film. Luckily, enough happens during THE CHELSEA GIRLS to keep one from checking the time. Well, more than enough; Warhol uses twin screens for the vast majority of THE CHELSEA GIRLS so there's always something to look at. This could have been more confusing had Warhol chosen not to turn up the volume on one of the films running.

Filmed inside New York's Chelsea Hotel, CHELSEA GIRLS is a series of unedited episodes filmed until the reel was exhausted. Comparing it with LONESOME COWBOYS, for example, it is apparent that Warhol's coterie is funnier and more appealing while role-playing than playing thinly-disguised themselves. Particularly disturbing is a mock talk show hosted by Ondine where he verbally and physically assaults a female guest he believes has deceived him. With a self-righteousness exacerbated by the camera's presence, Ondine rants about betrayal and the need for immediate action against it. Harmless vanity this was not.

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You know you're getting old when your teenage memories are being pillaged for Hollywood material like some "vintage" sitcom (What's next? A K-Tel infomercial advertising 1980's pop as the latest addition to their Great Hits of Yesteryears collection?) THE WEDDING SINGER (Frank Coraci, 1998) ** ransacks 80s pop culture somewhat politely, scoring enough laughs to keep you seated since the romance part is woefully light. When a suspiciously well-preserved (or heavily made-up) Billy Idol makes an appearance, I didn't know whether to laugh or pity the man. He was best left unresurrected.

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