Category: Documentary

By Joe Bendel. This is the film they did not get to see at the 1974 Cannes Film Festival. Les Blank’s Blankian documentary profile of Leon Russell had been accepted by the fest, but its subject refused to sanction its release. Inconveniently, it was a work-for-hire project for which Russell retained all rights, only allowing occasional screenings at Blank retrospectives, provided the filmmaker was in attendance. Finally, Harrod Blank has fulfilled the bucket-list item inherited from his late father, shepherding A Poem is a Naked Person to its long-awaited theatrical release, starting this Wednesday at Film Forum.

In the early 1970s, Russell was a highly regarded session musician poised to break out as a solo artist. He was touring regularly and had already released an album that went gold. Having shared in the critical heat generated by the Mad Dogs & Englishmen documentary when he was performing as Joe Cocker’s musical right-hand man, Russell and his producer Denny Cordell wanted their own doc to showcase the singer-songwriter-piano player as a leader. Blank was recommended and accepted the gig, setting up shop in the artist colony-like grounds surrounding Russell’s private studio.

Of course, Blank would not merely point the camera at Russell and ask some softball questions backstage. He became intrigued and inspired by Russell’s relationship with the neighboring Oklahoma community. When you watch Poem you understand all the influences that shaped Russell into a rocker, whose set lists were filled with songs by Hank Williams and Leadbelly. Blank also relished the eccentricities of the colorful locals, such as the old couple who attended building demolitions like rock groupies, as well as the other artists Russell had pulled into his orbit. Painter Jim Franklin is particularly notable. He had been recruited to paint murals on the studio walls, but his creative impulses found more stimulation at the bottom of Russell’s empty swimming pool. Decades later he would paint the film’s poster.

There is no shortage of Russell’s music in Poem. Blank also captures performances by George Jones, Willie Nelson, and Dejan’s Olympia Brass Band. Yet, it is the seemingly eccentric, but actually quite telling interludes that must have thrown Russell and Cordell. Frankly, in terms of tone, Poem is not so very different from Bert Stern’s enduring classic Jazz on a Summer’s Day, but they just didn’t get it, until now. Although this caused Blank much frustration, it probably did more long term harm to Russell’s career.

Had it released in 1974, Poem may very well have been Blank’s biggest box office hit, but it is hard to believe he would have gone Hollywood rather than making classics like Werner Herzog Eats his Shoe, Burden of Dreams, and Always for Pleasure. On the other hand, it is easy to imagine Poem getting revived year after year, to screen alongside perennials like Scorsese’s The Last Waltz. Frankly, Poem was perfect for its time, reflecting the youth culture’s increasingly ironic relationship with media. Had it been readily accessible, Blank’s film would have maintained awareness of Russell, regularly introducing him to new fans. Instead, he has become a cult figure in need of periodic rediscovery.

There is indeed some great music in Poem. Whether your tastes run towards rock, country, or blues, Russell’s sound is swampy enough for all to relate to. It is also an excellent example of Blank’s keen eye for regional culture and his gently humanistic sense of humor. According to the legends that have swirled around the long unseen film, a parachutist seen performing a glass eating trick on-camera is thought by some to be D.B. Cooper. Unfortunately, Mr. Cooper has not been available to confirm or deny his participation. Regardless, it is a whole lot of funky fun. Highly recommended for fans of Southern blues-roots-rock and Blank’s slyly insightful style of documentary filmmaking, A Poem is a Naked Person finally opens this Wednesday (7/1) in New York, at Film Forum.

LFM GRADE: A-

Posted on June 30th, 2015 at 12:39pm.

By Joe Bendel. Amy Winehouse’s life was short but remarkably well documented. That would certainly help a filmmaker crafting a posthumous profile, but it was much less fortunate for her. Despite the somewhat dubious objections of her family, a sensitive yet cautionary portrait of gifted artist overwhelmed by fame emerges in Asif Kapadia’s Amy, which opens this Friday in New York.

Amy Winehouse loved jazz and had the chops to sing it. If she had made a career of interpreting standards in moderate sized jazz clubs for a small but devoted following, she probably would have lived a much longer and happier life. Unfortunately, her talent was so conspicuous, she became a world famous pop star, but she was profoundly uncomfortable with much of the attention that followed. It is this Winehouse whom we see throughout the film, second by second, as her friends and associates speak over archival footage and still photos, including performances from the period before her tragic fame.

Much of the footage of the promising pre-celebrity Winehouse was supplied by her friend and original manager, Nick Shymansky. Despite original backing from the Winehouse family and estate, Kapadia’s film largely reflects the perspective of Shymansky and Winehouse’s lifelong friends, Juliette Ashby and Lauren Gilbert. Winehouse’s father Mitchel has made no secret of his objections, but through his position at the Winehouse estate, he can always tell his side of the story to a Guardian scribe whenever he wants. In contrast, the working class Ashby and Gilbert do not have the same access to media. Their only stake in this story was the loss of their dear friend. In fact, they had a deep distrust of the media, which Kapadia labored to overcome. Yet, that is precisely why their stories have such impact and credibility.

The general trajectory of Winehouse’s life is fairly well known: precocious talent gives rise to not-exactly overnight fame, which in turn leads to widely reported struggles with drugs and alcohol. By far, the most damning incident in the film involves Mitchel Winehouse undermining her friends’ early intervention, telling her she really had no need of rehab. While he has subsequently taken pains to argue that his opinion eventually changed on that score, Shymansky points out that this was a lost opportunity to get Winehouse treatment, before the entire world wanted a piece of her and the media hounded her every step. Mr. Winehouse can object all he likes, but the significance of the moment is inescapable.

As it happens, Mr. Winehouse is not the only member of her inner circle upset with their treatment in Kapadia’s film. Her second (and final) manager Raye Cosbert also takes issue with suggestions he was exploitative or at least insensitive to Amy Winehouse’s emotional turmoil. Whether that is fair or not, it seems clear from the film he could only relate to her as a pop act rather than the jazz artist she initially set out to be. Had he better understood her, he could have charted a career course that better appealed to her sensibilities.

Oddly, the sequence of Winehouse recording a duet of “Body and Soul” with Tony Bennett has received disproportionate press attention. Its inclusion in Amy certainly makes sense, but it is actually old news, having previously appeared in Unjoo Moon’s The Zen of Bennett (maybe some of our colleagues do not screen as extensively as they should). Regardless, the overall effect of Kapadia’s Amy is utterly devastating. It is a heartbreakingly intimate film that makes viewers feel like they are peering into her damaged psyche.

Although it might be controversial in some quarters, Kapadia deserves credit for portraying some figures in villainous terms rather than playing it safe. Editor Chris King also does extraordinary work combining the voluminous images into a powerful narrative. As a result, Kapadia’s Amy is a moving document of a gifted performer whose life was far sadder and briefer that it should have been. Highly recommended, Amy opens this Friday (7/3) in New York, at the Landmark Sunshine and the AMC Loews Lincoln Square.

LFM GRADE: A

Posted on June 30th, 2015 at 12:38pm.

By Joe Bendel. When Jo Byeong-man married Kang Kye-yeol, Korea was still occupied by Japan. For seventy-six years they were a happy couple, despite never having much money. Unfortunately, all mortal things must end. Jin Mo-young documented their final happy days together as well as their long goodbye in the surprise Korean box-office blockbuster, My Love, Don’t Cross that River, which screens during the 2015 New York Asian Film Festival.

When Jin started filming them, Jo was ninety-eight years young and his wife Kang was a youthful eighty-nine (they were already used to cameras, as the prior subjects of a KBS special report, Gray-Haired Lovers). You will actually come up with some awkward numbers if you do the math, but Kang explains her beloved was quite shy during their early years together and willing to wait for her to mature at her own pace. Eventually, they had twelve children together, but only six survived to see them into their golden years.

Frankly, considering their respective ages, Jo and Kang are impressively spry and frisky in the film’s initial scenes. There is no question they had a heck of a run together. Even though their union was a semi-arranged business, they clearly fell deeply in love. Sadly, time will finally catch up with Jo as he nears the century point. At this point, River becomes difficult to watch. However, our hearts really take a pummeling when Kang, recognizing time is short, makes offerings of burnt children’s clothing to the son and daughters they lost so long ago—but never forgot.

Much to everyone’s surprise, River became a sleeper sensation in South Korea, knocking Interstellar out of the top spot at the box-office. In their happier days, they were certainly an adorable couple. Yet, in addition to their great romance, they represent a bridge to the past, frequently wearing colorful traditional garments and residing in a modest home with modern appliances, but no indoor plumbing. They have seen it all (occupation, war, regime change, and dramatic Tiger-era economic growth), yet they still live much as they always have.

At times, River is uncomfortably intimate. Arguably, Jo’s painful last days merited greater privacy. Nevertheless, the longevity of their wedded bliss is quite inspiring. Yet, it is consolation offered by traditional rituals that provides the film’s most quietly devastating moments. Honest and endearing, My Love, Don’t Cross that River is recommended for slice of life doc watchers when it screens this Sunday (6/28) at the Walter Reade, as part of this year’s NYAFF.

LFM GRADE: B

Posted on June 26th, 2015 at 2:57pm.

By Joe Bendel. Apologists constantly claim Islamist madrassas are nothing to worry about. They are simply “schools.” While that might be a literal translation, it deliberately obscures the practical meaning. Throughout Pakistan, the Red Mosque’s network of Wahhabi madrassas act as incubators for virulent extremism, molding their students into fanatics and and with shocking regularity, into suicide bombers. Viewers meet the Red Mosque’s radical mastermind and his leading critic face-to-face in Hemal Trivedi & Mohammed Ali Naqvi’s Among the Believers, which screens during AFI Docs 2015.

Abdul Aziz Ghazi radiates the absolute certainty of evil. A supporter of the Taliban and ISIS, he advocates imposing strict Sharia law uniformly and despises secular government, especially that in Pakistan. This is somewhat ironic, since his father founded the Red Mosque at the behest of the Pakistani government and he still probably counts on considerable support from Islamist elements within the intelligence service. When not sending out self-immolating terrorists into the world (maintaining the thinnest shreds of plausible deniability), Ghazi ruins lives one child at a time.

The education provided at the Red Mosque madrassas guarantees their students a life of marginalization. Forget math and science. They are only taught to memorize the Koran, but not what its passages mean. Even if they were not radicalized to the point socially productive lives are impossible, they are not taught any employable skills, thus perpetuating the cycle of futility and resentment.

However, Ghazi can talk a good game. Despite his clashes with the government, he regularly scores points with the media. His most intrepid critic is Dr. Pervez Hoodbhoy, a nuclear physicist. Frankly, the words “Pakistani nuclear scientist” look a wee bit troublesome together, but it is reassuring to know Dr. Hoodbhoy is on the side of civilized, tolerant society.

There are loads of potentially dramatic material in Believers, but it is not well served by the filmmakers’ unyielding commitment to their observational approach. Ghazi’s severe religious ideology cries out to be challenged, but the only time that happens is in a highly structured television debate with Dr. Hoodbhoy, conducted over the phone. Nevertheless, you have to give Dr. Hoodbhoy credit for standing up to his harsh rhetoric.

Yet, this underscores the film’s weakness, presenting both men’s position and then largely shrugging. Frankly, they do not spend enough time with the victims of the Red Mosque, like Zarina, who ran away from her abusive madrassa and now attends a school that provides education rather than religious indoctrination. Even when they do provide wider context, like the Taliban massacre of 132 school children in Peshawar, the filmmakers never ask Ghazi the obvious follow-up questions.

Despite its intentional limitations, Believers is often an eye-opening cinematic dispatch from a deeply troubled nation. Clearly, Ghazi’s outfit is far better organized than the Pakistani government, which is depressing. Yet, the mere existence of Dr. Hoodbhoy and the hundreds of thousands of concerned Pakistanis who came out to protest the Peshawar Massacre is encouraging. It is one of the few documentaries chronicling contemporary Pakistan that does not leave us completely bereft of hope, but it still does not leave a lot of room to work with. Revealing but frustratingly passive, Among the Believers is worth a look anyway when it screens today (6/19) and Sunday (6/21) at AFI Docs, following its premiere at this year’s Tribeca Film Festival.

LFM GRADE: B-

Posted on June 19th, 2015 at 12:12pm.

By Joe Bendel. In Iran, the more things change cosmetically, the more they stay the same—or get worse. Since the 1979 revolution, women have been prohibited from publicly performing as vocal soloists. Nevertheless, composer Sara Najafi was determined to stage a concert celebrating women’s voices. Her filmmaker brother Ayat secretly documented the process, capturing her Kafkaesque encounters with the state bureaucracy and religious authorities in No Land’s Song, which screens during the 2015 Human Rights Watch Film Festival in New York.

The prevailing orthodoxy had accepted women as background singers but not soloists for reasons so strained and misogynistic, it is impossible to coherently summarize them. Seriously, it somehow involves Adam’s Rib. This is what Najafi is facing. Her concept for a cross-cultural concert exchange with French musicians is especially unnerving to the apparatchiks with the 2013 election looming. Memories of the Green Movement and the crackdown during the stolen election of 2009 still loomed large. In fact, Najafi conceived the program partly as a tribute to the Green protestors, but she was shrewdly cagey on those details when dealing with the various ministries.

Time and again, we hear bureaucrats dissembling and buck-passing. Clearly, nobody wanted to sign off on Najafi’s program, for fear of reprisals, but they were also reluctant to own up to their decisions. Of course, we can only hear these exchanges, because cameras were strictly prohibited in government offices, but those regime mandated hijabs certainly make it easy to conceal an audio recording device.

Essentially, there are two components to NLS, the expose of Iran’s Orwellian ruling apparatus and the musical performances, which eventually do come to fruition, through an improbably fortuitous chain of events. Frankly, they are equally compelling and speak to each other in many ways. Presumably for the sake of their supporters and his sister’s fellow musicians, Najafi is rather circumspect and diplomatic when presenting the backstage events surrounding the concert. Based on his interview with The Guardian, it sounds like it was a much tenser atmosphere than the film suggests.

Regardless, the music was worth the trouble and frustration. Najafi made the most of the opportunity with an awe-inspiringly bold set list. For instance, the lyrics of Emel Mathlouthi’s Tunisian protest song “Kelmti Horra,” performed by the songwriter, do not require listeners to read much into them. The rebellious, free-thinking spirit of Najafi’s program is admirable, but the music is also quite beautiful, often in an almost hypnotic way. Frankly, the short term future of women vocalists in Iran is grimly uncertain. No Land’s Song may not materially advance their cause to any appreciable extent, but Najafi put together a dynamite night of music, which is a worthy accomplishment in itself.

Ayat Najafi’s film is definitely eye-opening stuff. It gives you an immediate sense of what life is like for Iranian musicians, especially women, while also paying tribute to Qamar-ol-Moluk Vaziri, the first Iranian woman to sing in front of mixed audiences with an uncovered head, back in the 1920s. Unfortunately, it does not instill much optimism for the future, but the music is still quite stirring. Highly recommended, No Land’s Song screens this Thursday (6/18) at the IFC Center, as part of this year’s HRWFF in New York.

LFM GRADE: A

Posted on June 15th, 2015 at 10:12pm.