Caitlin Graham

Peep World

payal — Sun, 27 Feb 2011 08:00:00 +0000

Lately it seems as if forced quirkiness has become an unavoidable symptom of our indie films, with the family of characters being perhaps the most common and convenient setup (see Juno, Little Miss Sunshine, et al). So despite certain bright lights in Peep World's cast, I was wary of it from the start. The ensemble comedy centers on a family dinner that suffers under a mountain of tension in the wake of the success of the youngest son's tell-all memoir. The eponymous book mostly serves to air out the dirty laundry of all of its author's siblings: Jack, "the responsible one" (Michael C. Hall); Joel, "the fuck-up" (Rainn Wilson); and Cheri, a love-desperate neurotic (Sarah Silverman). Rounding out the cast are Ron Rifkin and Leslie Ann Warren as the parents of the clan, Judy Greer as Jack's wife Laura, Taraji P. Henson as Joel's girlfriend Mary, Ben Schwartz as Nathan, the youngest sibling and author of the controversial novel, and Kate Mara as his assistant.

With such a formidable cast, the film is mostly a showcase for its characters. Unfortunately, in this case the writing doesn't quite live up to the acting. For a comedy that's actually a tragedy of a highly dysfunctional family, the Peep World script doesn't create nearly enough of a history. The film is short, which would be fine (welcome, even) if not for the fact that it feels even shorter. There's something essential missing and, as a result, the emotional climaxes don't have much impact. We don't have enough time to settle into any of the siblings, let alone invest in them, and so, their epiphanies feel unearned.

The actors can't be faulted; they manage to create moments that are both hilarious and deeply touching, even without much to start with on paper. It may seem redundant to even mention it, but Michael C. Hall is just so good. Among the entire cast, he comes the closest to sparking actual empathy from the audience. One of the most effective scenes is when Jack has a quick phone conversation with the extravagant restaurant that's hosting his father's big birthday dinner—right after he's discovered that his own business has gone bankrupt and his few employees have abandoned him.

It's a pleasure to see Judy Greer playing against her stock rom-com quirky best friend role, and she and Hall are truly wonderful together. Taraji P. Henson is also, as always, one of the brighter lights among the cast, making the most of her small but hilarious role as Joel's understandably disoriented girlfriend. I would not have thought to pair her with Rainn Wilson, but they're ridiculously fun to watch together. Though she's never quite won my heart as a comedienne, even I couldn't take my eyes off of Sarah Silverman, and Ben Schwartz's Nathan faces a seemingly out of place, extreme situation with a fearless physical comedy that's equally unexpected. The only misfire in the casting is in Lewis Black as the film's narrator. His voice and delivery are certainly funny but they're also distracting, and even if that's the point of his voiceover, it still detracts from the film.

To the credit of Peep World, I certainly left the theater wanting more, but that's only because, despite its terrific performances, I was still ultimately left dissatisfied.

Written by: Caitlin Graham, February 27th 2011

I Spit On Your Grave

admin — Fri, 01 Oct 2010 02:00:00 +0000

Directed by Steven R. Monroe

CineTel Films

There's very little chance of spoiling anyone with this review. The original I Spit On Your Grave is notorious, if not for its legend then for its lingering controversy, especially amongst feminists. Meir Zarchi, writer and director of the 1978 film, apparently based his simple rape-revenge story on his own experience finding a woman who had been brutally beaten and raped near a park in New York City. Zarchi's vision, a tale where the victim would get bloody revenge on her attackers, may not have been an act of feminism, but it was certainly intended as one of sympathy. How it managed to end up the most infamous exploitation film of all time—complete with ads featuring a half-naked heroine shot from behind, her rear-end prominent and her hand clutching a butcher knife—was probably mostly the result of marketing (Zarchi's original title for the film, the one that he still prefers, was Day of the Woman).

Still, Zarchi's film is extremely misguided, even within its own context. There is little to no character development, for the attackers or the attacked, making the rape scenes implausible, and Jennifer, the film's "heroine," uses her sexuality to lure her rapists in for her revenge, even going so far as to have consensual sex with one of them. For this and many other reasons, I do think I Spit On Your Grave was begging to be remade, if not for Zarchi's redemption then for those of us who were left deeply uncomfortable (and dissatisfied) by it.

Steven Monroe's revamp may tell the same story, but it's a different film altogether. The actors are much more relatable and likeable, even Jennifer's attackers (including a charming Jeff Branson and Daniel Franzese of Mean Girls fame), and though we aren't given too much of anyone's history, every character comes off as thoroughly real, many with both dark urges and childlike insecurity. Jennifer (Sarah Butler) is written as much more skeptical than her predecessor, a young but smart, feisty, modern update.

The motive behind the boys' invasion of Jennifer's lakeside cabin, though disturbing in its implications for the dynamics among young men, is made clear, and appropriately, their torment of her starts off as much more psychological than physical. In fact, it's not until Jennifer escapes from them and stumbles upon the town sheriff (Andrew Howard) in the woods that the attack begins in earnest. It becomes unclear whether or not the boys would have gone so far as to rape Jennifer if the sheriff hadn't gotten involved, as he becomes a despicable sort of ringleader for the entire incident. Considering Zarchi's overseeing of Monroe's remake, this choice could very well have been a nod to his personal experience taking the young rape victim he encountered to an unsympathetic police station.

Monroe's rendering of Jennifer's rape is frantic and horrible, shot not unlike a battle scene in a war film. He never empathizes with her attackers, though Jennifer is certainly not made out to be completely helpless; we see her fighting or seeking escape at every given opportunity, creating an interesting harbinger of the ruthlessness she'll later inflict on them. There is an eerie strength in the way she walks away from them afterward, bloodied and beaten, and lets herself fall off a bridge, disappearing into the water below like a ghost.

The revenge portion of the film is gratuitous in its violence and, for that very reason, incredibly satisfying. The original's seduction is taken out of the torment, Jennifer subjecting her attackers to a long, torturous death that is somewhat symbolic for each of them. Though I'm more squeamish than most, I actually found myself laughing out loud at these horribly gruesome scenes—and I wasn't the only one. So long as Jennifer's rapists were getting theirs, the entire audience wasn't anything less than thrilled.

Unlike with Zarchi's film, I never found any of Jennifer's nudity gratuitous or even vaguely sexual in the remake. Even so, I Spit On Your Grave Redux reprises the exploitative marketing of the original, the film's poster nearly identical to the first. Whether this is a ploy to attract exploitation buffs or simply homage to Zarchi's film is irrelevant to Monroe's intentions. I suppose sex sells, even if it's non-consensual.

Still, I think it's important to realize that the new I Spit On Your Grave is not meant to be a political statement on rape or a realistic portrayal of a rape victim coming to terms with trauma. It's meant as a catharsis, pure and simple. Is it a feminist one? To answer that would require answering the question of what feminism is, which, these days, is more dangerous than some of the acts committed by the film's heroine. When political debate fails, I have to go with my gut (or guts, as the case may be) for a verdict: I Spit on Your Grave is a refreshing and deeply gratifying film that left me feeling somehow vindicated.

Written by: Caitlin Graham, September 30th 2010

I Am Love

admin — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 08:00:00 +0000

Directed by Luca Guadagnino

Mikado Film

The story is simple—and familiar, at least to feminists: years after being plucked from her home, stripped of her individuality, and thrust into a loveless marriage, a woman is shocked back to life and inspired to flee. But from A Doll's House to Titanic, it's not so much about the story itself as it is about how it's told. The "doll" of I Am Love is Emma Recchi (Tilda Swinton), a Milanese transplant who, upon arriving from Russia years before, inherited both a husband and the wealth of his prosperous family business. Being the matriarch-in-waiting of the elite Recchi clan is a privilege for Emma, complete with a sprawling mansion and a slew of servants, but one that comes with the price of a stifling lack of privacy, not to mention the complete loss of her identity.

Of course, it's not clear that all this is going on in the film, at least not at first. The way director Luca Guadagnino decides to approach Emma's story is the opposite of obvious, even experimental at times. For the first twenty minutes or so, it's not even clear that it's Emma's story, as the camera maintains a cold detachment from everyone, even allowing objects to partially obstruct its view, like a hidden surveillance. As the Recchi clan gathers around the dining room table for a formal dinner, Emma fades into the background, almost more so than the family's servants. Then, after Emma meets her son's friend and potential chef Antonio (Edoardo Gabbriellini), a seemingly innocuous introduction, Guadagnino starts to ease us closer and closer to her, finally arriving at a crescendo of close-ups when she samples his food for the first time. The meeting of Antonio, who will soon become her lover, and the way it is shot, beautifully marks Emma's transition from a sterile, colorless life to something brighter, more vibrant, and more immediate.

Emma and Antonio's scenes together are a sensory assault, the robust, invasive music and the sounds of nature rising in counterpoint to a similar crescendo at Emma's most dramatic revelations. Their first kiss is impressionistic, and their love scenes are experiential rather than voyeuristic. While revealing, they are not graphic or gratuitous but sensual and deeply erotic. (Afterward, my friend remarked that Hollywood could take a couple of pointers from Guadagnino on how to shoot sex.)

I Am Love is terribly rich, and not just for its style. Although it is Emma's story, there is so much more going on in the film. Emma's children provide interesting foils for her: daughter Betta (Alba Rohrwacher) is following her heart into the arms of another woman, while son Edo (Flavio Parenti) is about to enter a marriage based mostly on sex. It is fascinating to realize, as the film progresses, just how much of their spontaneity and spirit was inherited from their mother.

In stories such as these, and throughout film history, the unfaithful woman is typically punished for her infidelity. When an unexpected tragedy befalls the Recchis at the height of Emma's affair, it seems that this will be her fate as well. Interestingly though, she takes this devastation as an almost needed inspiration to follow her heart and abandon her marriage.

I Am Love is certainly an experience. The director and cast are so deeply committed to inhabiting the film's world and telling its story that you can't help but get pulled right in with them. Like the best films, it makes you feel like you've been somewhere, or at least been through something, and it takes a while after the credits have rolled to readjust your eyes and return to the real world.

Written by: Caitlin Graham, June 25th 2010

Women Without Men

admin — Sat, 05 Jun 2010 16:01:00 +0000

Directed by Shirin Neshat

Indiepix

The story of director Shirin Neshat is almost as compelling as her first feature. Born in religiously conservative Qazvin, Iran, Neshat has been using visual art to explore gender relations under Islam for nearly two decades, traveling back and forth between the States and Iran to enrich her perspective. But because her work has been so politically outspoken, Neshat has been exiled from her native country since 1996.

A visionary as courageous as she is condemned, Neshat is perhaps the most likely candidate to direct Women Without Men, an adaptation of Shahrnush Parsipur's sweeping novel. The scope of Parsipur's story is both epic and intimate, juxtaposing the Western imperialist invasion of Tehran with the intertwining lives of four Iranian women during the tumultuous summer of 1953. To call such a project ambitious would be an understatement.

The connection between this political upheaval and the four characters in question is unmistakable; just as the people of Tehran have decided to come together and fight to maintain democracy, these four women have reached an impasse in their own lives. Nearing thirty and still unwedded, Munis (Shabnam Toloui) seeks to escape the oppressive hand of her older brother; Faezeh (Pegah Ferydoni), a rape victim, must flee to avoid condemnation; long-time prostitute Zarin (Orsolya Tóth) is finally ready to leave the life behind; and middle-aged Fakhri (Arita Shahrzad) has grown weary of her stifling, loveless marriage. The greater struggle of the revolution provides a moving counterpoint to the individual struggles of these characters to achieve solace.

Both the book and the film use elements of magic realism to tell their story. In order to be free of her brother and reinvent herself as a revolutionary, Munis either fakes her own suicide or actually commits suicide and comes back to life; it's unclear which. While roaming the woods, Faezeh sees a surreal reenactment of her rape. Though the device isn't consistent, it still manages to be effective when used.

It helps that the film is beautifully shot, with careful compositions and a palpable tone and style. Neshat uses a metallic palette throughout, giving the film an appropriately imprisoning feel. The film is also remarkable for its avoidance of graphic imagery, with the exception of a disturbing scene in which Zarin scrubs herself raw in a public bath, but this is more to emphasize her diseased, nearly skeletal body, and needless to say, this lone image has a lingering impact.

In fact, it is Zarin's story that ends up being the most effective, while some of the others seem a bit heavy-handed at times. Fakhri's husband chides, "A woman hitting menopause shouldn't be flirting anymore," while Munis' brother declares, "A woman's body is like a flower. Once it blossoms, it quickly withers away." It's not that these sentiments aren't believable, but pairing them with a sheer lack of sympathetic male characters makes it all seem intentionally exaggerated.

From the film's final disclaimer, it seems that Neshat's primary objective was to focus on the revolution, but the way Women Without Men unfolds makes the political aspect of the story more of a backdrop than a feature. It is quite poignant, however, to realize that, in the end, our four main characters have been afforded a rebirth of some kind, even if it's through death, while the Iranian people have failed to achieve the one for which they've so bravely fought.

Written by: Caitlin Graham, June 5th 2010

Behind the Burly Q

admin — Tue, 04 May 2010 16:01:00 +0000

Directed by Leslie Zemeckis

First Run Features

We can't deny that we're in the midst of a Burlesque Renaissance, at least in New York City—go to any club downtown and see for yourself. But there's also no denying that the art form has undergone a drastic change since its heyday, if not in the style of performance then in how its performers are received. Today there's something kitschy about women stripping down to pasties and shaking it 'til their tassels twirl. What was once our version of pole dancing has developed an innocent gloss with time. Nostalgia has helped us to appreciate burlesque for both its titillation and its humor, and to consider its performers not only strippers but also gifted comediennes.

In Behind the Burly Q, countless dancers from burlesque's "golden age" remind us that, even then, humor was always key, but that we shouldn't forget what the art form's really about. One former dancer recalls a remark made by her husband long after she'd stopped: "You weren't a stripper; you were in burlesque." She replied, "Well honey, what do you think I was doing in burlesque? I wasn't playing the piano."

This tongue-in-cheek attitude must have rubbed off on director Leslie Zemeckis, as she does her best to keep the film light even when approaching the darkest of subjects. Like many of those working the strip club circuit today, burlesque dancers of the thirties typically grew up underprivileged and often abused, with little hope for advancement. Some of the most famous performers, like Lili St. Cyr, carried their demons well into celebrity, falling into depression and drug use. Still, all of Zemeckis' interviewees look back on the era fondly, even when discussing their own struggles, and Zemeckis underscores their resilience with jaunty vaudevillian music throughout.

It's impossible to estimate how arousing burlesque was for audiences contemporary to its prime, but according to Behind the Burly Q, its performers were admired and courted by movie stars and politicians alike (including a young JFK). Burlesque brought them money and adoration, more than they could have garnered in any other profession available to them, and many of them truly enjoyed what they did. In fact, some dancers performed well into middle age, Ann Corio into her 80's. The film retains that same bawdy, shameless joy, while still managing to give proper reverence to its subject—and its originators.

Written by: Caitlin Graham, May 4th 2010

Waking Sleeping Beauty

admin — Tue, 20 Apr 2010 16:01:00 +0000

Directed by Don Hahn

Red Shoes Productions

We all know the Disney Renaissance well. From the late '80s to early '90s, we were blessed with a group of films that rejuvenated and redefined the animated feature: The Little Mermaid, Beauty & the Beast, Aladdin, and The Lion King. These stories forever bonded those of us who grew up during that time, especially young women who looked up to their wide-eyed but still fiery princesses as our ideals. (I remember gathering with friends in the back of the bus to sing "Part of That World" in unison on our way to school trips.)

Long-time Disney producer Don Hahn's documentary provides a nostalgic trip for my generation, as well as an unprecedented behind-the-scenes look at the special set of circumstances, or "the perfect storm of people," that led to the creation of these classic films. As hard as it is to believe now, Disney's animated division was in serious trouble in the early '80s, the company relying prominently on its live-action features like Splash for its profits. Disney even went so far as to evict its stable of artists from the animation building, which eventually led to the management turnover that brought in Michael Eisner, Frank Wells, and Jeffrey Katzenberg, who made it his personal mission to "wake up Sleeping Beauty."

In the following years, upper management brought in a slew of new artists, many from the musical theatre world, and put animators to work round the clock on what would become their most successful feature in decades, The Little Mermaid. Collaborators like composer Howard Ashman injected that epic sensibility into Disney's developing tales, but Hahn's treatment of the creative process in his documentary is anything but epic. Hahn takes great joy in poking fun at the clash of personalities behind the scenes, with caricatures of execs and animators alike sprinkled throughout. He makes the tensest of decisions playful, earning laughs even when (or especially when) things turn ugly.

Hahn's approach is fitting for Disney's animators during this era, a group of people who played just as hard as they worked. At one point early in the film, when they're all still fearing for their jobs, Hahn shows them keeping their spirits up by reenacting Apocalypse Now in the office. It's not all fun and games, though; Hahn also gives us an interesting albeit brief look at their difficult working conditions. Huge prices were paid by the artists for such a prolific period, mainly personal, many animators working too many hours to spend time with family and friends.

Waking Sleeping Beauty does a commendable job of exposing the dark underbelly of such an innocent source of joy in my own life. Still, the film's most interesting scenes are the ones that are more creative, like Ashman pitching "Under the Sea" to a room full of animators or he and Alan Menken working out the kinks of "Be Our Guest." But these moments of epiphany are few and far between, at least in Hahn's film, and thus its title is a bit misleading. As I suspect many of Disney's animators felt about this period, I wish it'd been less about ego and more about the creative process.

Written by: Caitlin Graham, April 20th 2010

Off and Running

admin — Tue, 30 Mar 2010 16:01:00 +0000

Directed by Nicole Opper

First Run Features

Considering the number of children in need of adoption—and the number of children who are actually adopted each year—it's surprising there aren't more adoption stories being told. Aside from The Locator, we've had especially limited access to stories about adopted children reaching out to their birth parents. The delicate, vulnerable position of someone sending a letter out into the world, waiting and hoping to hear back about where they come from, is still a bit of a mystery, and more than worthwhile. In fact, I knew little about it until my own adopted mother finally reached out to her birth parents at age fifty-six.

Not only is that seminal search a matter of discovering identity for the adoptee; it is, potentially, a matter of deep-seated tension between the child and her adoptive parents. My mother actually waited until both of my grandparents had passed before seeking her own answers, to avoid the risk of hurting them.

Nicole Opper's Off and Running provides a candid, thoughtful portrait of such a situation in all its complexities. The documentary follows Avery Klein-Cloud, a charismatic star high school athlete from Brooklyn, who attempts to continue living the life she and her adoptive parents carved out for her while waiting on correspondence from her birth mother. The fact that Avery is trans-racially adopted—the African American daughter to two White Jewish mothers—makes her quest for identity that much more significant.

At the beginning of the film, Avery frankly admits her persistent discomfort in Black social spheres growing up, and later, when a counselor asks, “Do you feel Black?,” Avery says she doesn't know what that means. Her brother Rafi, also adopted but of mixed race, provides an interesting contrast; not only does he seem to have little interest in contacting his birth parents, but he seems entirely unconcerned with his origins. At the very least, he doesn't seem as dependent on where he came from for a sense of self.

Still, Avery's bravery in her search for answers is admirable, and considering how obviously torn she is about her particular situation, she is incredibly forthcoming and self-aware. We get an unexpected amount of access to her private thoughts and feelings about what she's going through, often things that she doesn't even share with her mothers. But as the tension in the Klein-Cloud household escalates, Opper seems to pull back and even gloss over certain pivotal incidents, like a falling out between Avery and her parents that results in her moving out for a period. Opper barely addresses an abortion Avery decides to get when an unwanted pregnancy threatens to impede her track career. In fact, this part of the story is so glossed over that I wasn't entirely sure that it happened.

In the end, Avery's coming of age—and to terms with the fact that she may never meet her birth mother—feels undeserved though still inspiring. Perhaps the fact that Opper has a personal relationship with the family (she was one of Avery's teachers in middle school) can account for her trepidation in handling such sensitive issues. But her reluctance does take away from the moral lesson of the film: that adopted children need to stand by those who've cared for them and showed them support every step of the way, which, in this case, is Avery's unconventional but extraordinary family.

Written by: Caitlin Graham, March 30th 2010

The Private Lives of Pippa Lee

admin — Wed, 13 Jan 2010 13:27:00 +0000

Directed by Rebecca Miller

Elevation Filmworks

It's always a relief when the author of a novel decides to take its film adaptation into her own hands, especially if the author also happens to be a fairly seasoned writer-director for the screen. In The Private Lives of Pippa Lee, Rebecca Miller recreates her original character study in her own image, bringing the story of a misguided youth-turned-Stepford Wife to brilliant, riveting life.

The film starts off quietly, with the kind of domestic dinner party scene we've come to expect from tales of unfulfilled suburban housewives such as these, but the event actually turns out to be in honor of Pippa's fiftieth birthday. I must admit it took me more than a few minutes to accept Robin Wright Penn (Forrest Gump, Nine Lives) as a fifty-year-old woman; even with the aging makeup, the forty-three-year-old actress' youthful glow still manages to emanate. However, there is a method to this casting choice; it quickly becomes apparent that Pippa's physical appeal is an integral part of her character, a beguiling mask that has always brought her just as much trouble as it has helped her to avoid.

Pippa is a doting wife to her much older husband (Alan Arkin) and a loving mother to her son and daughter, even in the face of their disapproval, but there is little life or substance to her. Penn's interpretation of the character is a remarkable transformation, as she uses a much higher vocal register and carries herself with almost no conviction or purpose. Her Pippa—at least for the first part of the film—is a bit of a ghost, a stark contrast to the independent, inaccessible roles the actress has often portrayed in the past. When Pippa makes the terrifying discovery that she is having a nervous breakdown, the character is inspired to reexamine all the traumas that have led her to her quiet suburban life, and she—and Penn—take an acute turn right before our eyes. Pippa gives up her mask, revealing a resilient woman who is both piteous and funny as she drives herself mad.

If you haven't read the book (which I haven't), the film is delightfully unpredictable. I was pleasantly surprised to be transported to Pippa's unorthodox childhood, to spend so much time on her carousel of questionable caretakers, from her speed addict mother (the wonderful Maria Bello) to her über-cool, über-liberal Aunt Kat (Julianne Moore). As a Gossip Girl skeptic, I gave a huge sigh when Blake Lively first appeared as teenage Pippa, but she turned out to be surprisingly effective, standing her ground in the formidable shadow of Penn. A scene between Lively and Bello in which Pippa takes her mother's drugs as an experiment in empathy is absolutely heart wrenching.

Winona Ryder is also a surprising highlight as Pippa's extremely neurotic, needy, and often hysterical friend. She provides a hilarious counterpoint to Penn, sweating the small stuff very publicly while Pippa suffers a lifetime of disaster in complete silence.

To reveal more about Pippa's past (and future) would detract from the joy of watching it unfold on screen—and it is an utter joy, even as upsetting as the protagonist's circumstances sometimes are. Though I have yet to read Miller's book, I would imagine that Pippa's tale of rediscovery could not have found a better interpretation.

Written by: Caitlin Graham, January 13th 2010

The House of the Devil

admin — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 17:11:00 +0000

Directed by Ti West

Glass Eye Pix

When I realized that tongue-in-cheek horror writer-director Ti West's latest was produced by the same company that brought us last year's delightful horror comedy I Sell the Dead, I'll admit my own personal bar was raised ten-fold. But while the 80s-inspired haunted house throwback delivers a healthy dose of nostalgia, The House of the Devil is otherwise mostly dissatisfying.

The film's opening sequence, while pointlessly lengthy, has an excitingly reminiscent feel: the camera alternately meanders and freeze-frames on young Sam (Jocelin Donahue) as she walks from her apartment to her college campus, listening to a clunky period walkman that blasts an upbeat synth-y tune. Unfortunately though, the "pointlessly lengthy" doesn't stop there. It takes about forty minutes of non-scenes post-opening (featuring some cringe-worthy non-acting by Donahue) to reach our creaky country mansion so the actual horror can finally begin.

Tom Noonan and Mary Woronov are the film's saving graces as Mr. and Mrs. Ulman, the disconcerting owners of the house. Both actors manage to simultaneously charm the audience and make us savagely uncomfortable. Even though there is something unarguably off about the two, we find ourselves hoping that their bizarre request for Sam to babysit Mrs. Ulman's mother is actually genuine.

There is a slew of feminist literature on the films from which The House of the Devil is derived, particularly on characters like Sam, known as the "final girl" archetype. Like the Jamie Lee Curtises and Neve Campbells before her, Donahue is meant to be a bit of a paradox: alluring but virginal, both victim and survivor, just helpless enough but too cunning to actually fall at the hands of her monster. Somehow though, West manages to miss the cunning part completely, leaving a young woman who miraculously survives despite making mistakes of the caliber usually reserved for the genre's dizzy best friend character (played here by the wonderful Greta Gerwig) or fake out protagonist (see Psycho's Janet Leigh or Drew Barrymore in Scream). Acting aside, Donahue isn't given much of a character with which to start.

Still, the time Sam spends exploring the house solo, though drawn out, is awfully disquieting. West's cinematography builds a sharp sense of doom, seemingly from thin air. Ultimately, however, the payoff doesn't nearly fit the buildup, and we're left with nothing more than a lame, half-assed rip-off of Rosemary's Baby. Perhaps West should have spent less time on foreplay and a little more time on the main event.

Written by: Caitlin Graham, October 26th 2009

An Education

admin — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 07:48:00 +0000

Directed by Lone Scherfig

Sony Classics

From the moment the film started, the audience of An Education had a collective understanding that what we were about to see no longer applied. Based on the memoir of British journalist Lynn Barber, the film opens with a nostalgically ridiculous montage of ‘60s-era schoolgirls learning their daily lessons: cooking, ballroom dancing, and walking with proper posture (books-on-heads and all). As one appropriately conservative image dissolved into another, everyone in the theater—man and woman alike—was given more and more to incredulous laughter, amused and thankful for how far we’ve come and where we once were.

For this reason, we felt instantly connected to the film’s protagonist, Jenny (Carey Mulligan), a sixteen-year-old girl who is intellectually and culturally out of her time. As I watched her shut herself up in her room and sing along to French records, I was reminded of Vada Sultenfuss in My Girl, another precocious heroine of the early sixties who, too smart and intuitive for her age, finds herself mostly unable to connect with her peers and seeks refuge in her own solitude, dreaming of more. Jenny is smarter than both of her parents, even her father (a charmingly bumbling Alfred Molina), who tries in vain to rule with an iron fist and often ends up sounding like the petulant child.

Still, there are cracks in Jenny’s urbane composure, and Mulligan is masterful at finding the right moments for uncontrollable bursts of girlishness, mostly when she is overwhelmed by her older suitor, David (Peter Sarsgaard), an unnervingly charming thirty-something who pulls over in his car after a music lesson to give her shelter from the rain. Sarsgaard is quietly magnetic, to the point where we, too, are wooed by him and, like Jenny and her family, have no idea just how manipulative he is until the end of the film.

Though this unconventional romance is the main focus of An Education, the film’s issues become much broader when, in the wake of her seventeenth birthday, Jenny turns to her parents and asks, “What if I got married instead of going to college?” It is here that the film takes a sharp turn from intimate coming of age tale to rumination on the M.R.S. degree syndrome of the ‘50s and ‘60s. Jenny’s inner conflict over what kind of education will be best for her is endemic to the period, but it is treated with such elegance and subtlety that it feels utterly immediate.

It is devastating to watch Jenny’s much-too-quick tumble toward womanhood end in sacrifice and, finally, disillusionment and heartbreak. What’s even more devastating, however, is how the film resolves—or doesn’t resolve—her shattered life. As in My Girl, an abrupt Insta-Happy-Ending mends all of the protagonist’s loose, tattered ends and wraps them up in a bow with the power of voice-over narration. And even if the audience was happy to see Jenny restore her life to its former pre-David state, this reclamation of innocence seemed forced and unrealistic and left us all unsettled.

Ultimately, the film’s acting is its best feature, but that alone is far too good to miss.

Written by: Caitlin Graham, September 17th 2009

Lizzie Borden (09/10/2009)

admin — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 17:25:00 +0000

The Living Theatre

New York, New York

How do you spin a nursery rhyme into a full-length musical? In this case, the uber-creepy poem in question is, thankfully, based in reality: the eponymous Lizzie Borden who reputedly “took an axe” and “gave her father forty whacks” was a real life New England girl accused—and acquitted—of murdering both her parents in the late nineteenth century, so there’s more than enough material to mine. But the rock musical bearing her name, like the nursery rhyme, doesn’t take this grim piece of history so seriously, blending period and punk to create a tongue-in-cheek murderous romp.

In Took An Axe’s production of the tale, our bloodthirsty heroine (and she is treated as such) goes from prim and pale to full-on goth, trading her petticoats for a pair of leather gloves and black lipstick post-patricide. Meanwhile, the Bordens’ housekeeper Bridget (Carrie Cimma) is pure punk from the moment she steps out on stage, from her spiked-up bleach blonde hair to her leather corset. We quickly discover the symbolism of such costuming as Bridget whispers encouragement in the trepidatious Lizzie’s ear, providing a sort of heavy metal devil on her shoulder. By the time the second act begins, the entire cast has completely abandoned their period posturing to wield their mics like modern rock stars.

On the night that I attended, the audience ate up such irreverence, cheering openly when Lizzie spattered her parents’ blood all over the white backdrop upstage. As with Rocky Horror, though, Borden isn’t just about the gimmick; the music is fantastic too. The full-on rock numbers, like the joyously hard “Why Are All These Heads Off?,” pull no punches, while the more traditional musical theatre tunes are full of gorgeously executed harmonies. “Burn the Old Thing Up,” which the somewhat wistful Lizzie (Jenny Fellner) sings while setting fire to her bloodstained dress, is a poignant farewell to both her younger, repressed self and the evidence of her adult murder.

The Living Theatre’s tiny space is used commendably well, with a red scrim dividing the stage and separating the actors from the band. This gauzy curtain is pulled aside at times, opening up the upstage area for scenes set on the Bordens’ rooftop, which are beautifully staged with creative, unexpected lighting effects.

As one of very few all-female rock musicals in existence, Lizzie Borden is valuable for any feminist theatergoer, and this production is particularly fun. Admittedly, the tone of the show as a whole is a bit muddled, as certain actors play it almost too straight, but if you make a pact with yourself at the door to just surrender to the mayhem, you’ll be cheering too.

Written by: Caitlin Graham, September 15th 2009

La Americana

admin — Thu, 27 Aug 2009 17:34:00 +0000

Directed by Nicholas Bruckman

People's Television

This review will probably be a bit dated, as Nicholas Bruckman’s 2008 documentary appealing for more welcoming U.S. immigration policy has been superseded by our new president’s openly liberal views on the issue. However, La Americana still manages to be refreshing, ambitious, and important, particularly for those who are still skeptical of Obama’s stance or who simply don’t know much about the immigrant experience.

Bruckman makes a valiant effort to de-generalize the issue or, rather, the people it affects most, by focusing on one woman’s journey to the U.S. as an illegal immigrant from Bolivia. Her story is not the one to which we are accustomed: Maria does not come to New York in pursuit of some variation on “The American Dream;” she is only there in the hopes of making enough money to cover medical expenses for her daughter Carla, who was left paralyzed by a bus accident as a young girl. Ironically, Maria’s need to take care of her daughter ends up being somewhat of a detriment to their relationship, as it keeps them apart for several years.

For a film that’s bookended with two liberal quotes on immigration—the first by JFK and the second by Obama himself—La Americana is surprisingly unbiased in its presentation. Though Maria is a special case and certainly doesn’t represent all the illegal immigrants in New York City, let alone this country, her story is told in such an unadulterated manner that I wasn’t left feeling manipulated or like I was being pitched a political ideal.

It only helps that Maria herself is quite relatable and likable; she speaks candidly and without a speck of naïveté, so much so that even in spite of her situation, we never pity her. When she moves back to Bolivia on Carla’s quinceañera, we are finally able to see the awful living conditions her family endures there, but Maria never breathes a word of despair. She says nothing of how poor the available health care is there—we see it for ourselves, as she is forced to carry Carla up flights of stairs to the doctor’s office.

Unfortunately, the money Maria saved up in the States cannot sustain her and Carla for more than several months, and it is with a world of regret that she must move back to the U.S. It is at this point, at the end of the film, that we are reminded of Bruckman’s agenda, but not by Bruckman himself; it is Maria who pushes for change, eloquently expounding on what the term “American” means and what it should mean.

As I watched Maria tearfully explain that all Americans came from immigrants, I was surprised to realize that I’d never been allowed such emotional access to an illegal immigrant before. Bruckman has done something truly revolutionary by concentrating on this woman’s story: he’s personalized a group of people that has typically been pluralized and portrayed as a single mass, a collective “issue.” With the help of his film, perhaps those who still have trouble breaking that convention will at least begin to see illegal immigrants as people rather than a problem.

Written by: Caitlin Graham, August 27th 2009

Thirst

admin — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 10:08:00 +0000

Directed by Park Chan-Wook

Focus Features

Some say the mark of a great film is that it defies our expectations. If that's the case, then Oldboy director Park Chan-wook's latest should be considered one of the best. Thirst is the story of a Catholic priest who becomes a vampire, and has thus earned the label of a horror flick, but the film itself is virtually genre-proof. Sure, the experience of watching it was somewhat similar to that of any slasher, in that I had to cringe and turn my head away from the gore from time to time (an embarrassing admission for a film reviewer). But the sheer variety and complexity of the thoughts and emotions Thirst conjured makes it much more than just "horror" and, frankly, much more than just another film.

Appropriately, Thirst is a feast for the senses, Park's sound and visuals quickly tumbling toward the operatic as priest Sang-Hyun (The Host's Song Kang-ho) surrenders more and more to his vampiric desires. Sang-Hyun's addictive relationship with the young Tae-Joo (Kim Ok-vin) nearly puts him—and us—on sensory overload. Park acknowledges—or rather, foreshadows—that this isn't necessarily a good thing, making their sex scenes alternately titillating and disgusting.

What's most startling, though, is how such carnality is often meshed with a hyperbolic, almost slapstick sense of humor. When Sang-Hyun "feeds," we find him lying on the floor of a hospital room, taking pulls from a patient's IV like he's sipping a milkshake through a straw. And when he and Tae-Joo sleep together for the first time, she literally has to pry his stubborn virginal legs apart to make it happen.

Park has dubbed his own film a "vampire melodrama," and there is definitely a strong classical Hollywood influence at play here. Tae-Joo is a modern update on the femme fatale of the '40s, right down to the way she convinces Sang-Hyun to murder her husband, clutching his shoulder a la Norma Desmond. And as in the best traditional noir films, it is she who steals the show and whose story we ultimately remember most. This is due in no small part to Kim, who is both classic and creative in her journey from a ghost of a young girl to a delightfully manipulative monster of a woman. To think that this young actor's career has only just begun is truly exciting.

Certain viewers may find it jarring to watch Thirst seamlessly shift from horror to dark comedy to suspense thriller to romance, but its themes of morality, guilt, and redemption are consistent and utterly powerful. For this reason alone, it is worth seeing, preferably on the big screen for the sake of Park's meticulous compositions, and if you're anything like me, you'll crave a second viewing as soon as the end credits roll.

Written by: Caitlin Graham, August 18th 2009

Easy Virtue

admin — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 09:26:00 +0000

Directed by Stephan Elliott

Sony Pictures Classics

To say that Stephan Elliott was taken aback when approached to direct Easy Virtue would be an understatement. Asking the man behind the beloved drag queen road movie The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert to adapt a Noel Coward play didn’t exactly seem logical. But the producers of the film insisted there was a method to their madness. Considering the plot of the stage version—a conservative British family contends with their son’s new progressive American wife—they thought it only appropriate to inject a modern spark into the talky period piece.

Going along with this strategy, the producers decided to recruit not only Elliott but also composer Marius De Vries, the man behind the scores of both Moulin Rouge! and Romeo + Juliet. His music, paired with Elliott’s images, results in an exciting mixture of the contemporary and the nostalgic. De Vries alternates between vaudevillian instrumentals and the vocals of his modern cast, while Elliott both embraces and defies the “invisible” cinematography endemic to similar adaptations. It’s a relief to watch a period film that never even comes close to stifling, no matter how uptight some of its characters are. The world of Easy Virtue is real and relatable; we are immersed there and we feel right at home.

We are more than helped along by the mostly impeccable cast. Ben Barnes is effervescent as John Whittaker, bringing a boyishly playful sex appeal to the romantic lead, and Colin Firth and Kristin Scott Thomas are, of course, especially effective as his parents. A startlingly grizzled Firth delivers each line with an understated realism that is alternately hilarious and tragic. Thomas is equally believable as the rancorous Mrs. Whittaker, a role that could have easily slipped into caricature in the hands of anyone less capable. It is delightfully awkward to watch them tiptoe around each other as if they ended up married by accident. Even relative unknowns Katherine Parkinson and Kimberley Nixon are pitch-perfect as the Whittaker daughters.

I was skeptical about the casting of Jessica Biel in a period film, let alone as the lead alongside such acting royalty. Elliott has referred to Biel as a “blank slate” of an actor, and that may be true, but the slate just doesn’t get filled here. Though Biel tries her best, there’s something not-quite-there about her as Larita. She picks up more steam toward the middle of the film, once her character stops trying to please her fiancé’s family, but she never fully attains the level of charisma the role requires. Ultimately, you don’t quite understand why Larita inspires such vitriol from the women or such adulation from the men.

Still, Easy Virtue is both a faithful and refreshing film—and a very consistent, cohesive one at that. It does just what an adaptation should: give a fresh take on the original material while staying true to its spirit.

Written by: Caitlin Graham, June 11th 2009

Fix

admin — Fri, 03 Apr 2009 17:36:00 +0000

Directed by Tao Ruspoli

LAFCO/Mangusta Productions

How much of filmmaking is documentary? Even when an actor is performing onscreen, we can sometimes still see traces of the real person underneath the character. And when a camera is turned on us—at a wedding reception or for a home video—we instantly become performers ourselves. If a small city is constructed for a film set, does that make it any less real than a city that already exists?

Though most certainly a narrative film, Tao Ruspoli’s Fix blends fiction with reality to such a degree that at the end, I was left wondering what I had just seen. The story follows Bella (House's Olivia Wilde) and Milo (Ruspoli), a young couple on a road trip to bring Milo’s brother Leo (Shawn Andrews) to a rehab center in L.A. to kick his heroin addiction. An aspiring documentarian, Milo brings his camera along for the ride, capturing their whirlwind tour of southern California with gritty spontaneity.

When the director is also a character, and the film itself a plot point, the line between what’s real and what’s being performed begins to blur. Milo’s camera provides us with rare insight into the facades the three characters put on for each other; for all that Milo lauds his brother in front of Bella, we see him immediately turn resentful whenever she leaves the two of them alone. And some of the most interesting moments of the film occur when a character asks Milo to turn off the camera and he agrees but doesn’t actually comply. Although this often means we can no longer see the character’s face, we can hear them dispel all pretenses just from the sound of their voice.

A great deal of credit must go to the actors for their layered but understated performances. Wilde is particularly effective as the doting but still very independent girlfriend, who starts the film wary of Leo and quickly ends up enchanted by him. It is wonderful to watch her let down her guard and allow herself to be wooed by his recklessness, all in the course of a single day.

Unfortunately, some of the editing ends up detracting from these subtly complex performances. Between the jump cuts and often intentionally nauseating camerawork, Ruspoli’s style is not only distracting but also unoriginal (see The Blair Witch Project and basically any film made with a handheld thereafter). Fix would have been much more compelling if Ruspoli had kept with the style of a true home video and allowed all of the scenes to play out continuously in simple straight-on shots. Instead, the film can sometimes feel over-produced. Still, Fix maintains the meandering, impulsive quality of certain road movies of the seventies, while also managing to keep a brisk pace.

Written by: Caitlin Graham, April 3rd 2009