Category: Trailers

By Joe Bendel.  Dissident filmmaker Jafar Panahi sort of brought the Taxicab Confessions concept to Iran, but most of the sins that need atoning are those of the Islamist government. The idea of Panahi working as a cabbie might sound appalling, but it makes sense as a cover for his defiant underground filmmaking. Cabs are a common sight on the streets of Tehran and they also have the advantage of being a moving target. Frankly, nobody is really sure how scripted it is, but each fare he picks up is significant in Jafar Panahi’s Taxi, which opens this Friday in New York at the IFC Center.

As the third film Panahi has made since being banned from filmmaking, Taxi is quite an accomplishment just for existing. Although his post-ban films are very self-referential by necessity, Panahi has yet to repeat himself. In this case, he appears to be making a hidden camera documentary about the average citizens who hail his cab, but some of the dialogue is so on the nose calling out his situation and echoing his previous films, it sounds suspiciously hybridized. Of course, on a more general level, the film itself can easily be interpreted as an homage to Abbas Kiarostami’s dash-cam taxi drama, Ten.

Some of Panahi’s “fares” recognize him, while some do not, but they all have something to say. His first two unrelated fares (picking up multiple hails is a standard practice in Tehran) argue about Sharia Law. She is appalled by the public executions, but he seems to think they serve a constructive role controlling society. His job? Mugger.

The third ride-sharer avoids political arguments, eventually revealing himself to be a bootleg hawker. Even Panahi has used his services in the past, because how else would he see Once Upon a Time in Anatolia? He is eager to sell the taxi-driving auteur on a sleazy “Panahi Recommends” bootleg scheme, but the director will not bite. We take it Panahi met plenty would-be exploiters of his ilk during his periods of house arrest. However, things start to really get serious when Panahi is flagged by an accident victim and his wife. During the brief trip to the hospital, they desperately try to hash out some sort of legal arrangement that would not leave her destitute should he die, since Iranian wives do not have inheritance rights under law.

In This is Not a Film, Panahi’s docu-essay capturing the frustration of his time serving the house arrest sentence, he was somewhat upstaged by his pet iguana Igy. However, he never stands a chance once his niece Hana steps in the cab. She has natural comic timing and a flair for delivering dialogue with a mischievous twist. If her scenes were extemporized then Heaven help her parents. Obviously, Panahi thinks she is the bee’s knees, even when she is delivering the heaviest commentary of the film. As part of a class assignment she is tasked with filming a “distributable” film. However, her teacher has given her a long list of absurd restrictions. Panahi knows them well.

Moments like that risk coming across as rather didactic, but Panahi maintains a street-level vitality that makes everything sound fresh and realistic. Beyond Hana, the movie-star in the making, his entire cast of “participants” always keep the film down-to-earth and the energy level cranked up. It would be nice to associate names with our praise, but they remain deliberately unidentified, for their protection.

As one would expect, the reality of Panahi’s situation is reflected in every minute of Taxi, by the secretive nature of its production. Still, he does not force his points, preferring to tease out a critique of current Iranian government and society over time. It is a clever and engaging film that would screen well in dialogue with Sanaz Azari’s criminally under-programmed I for Iran. Frustrating in its honesty, yet strangely satisfying for its resiliency, Jafar Panahi’s Taxi is very highly recommended for everyone who values free expression when it opens this Friday (10/2) at the IFC Center.

LFM GRADE: A

Posted on October 2nd, 2015 at 3:11pm.

By Joe Bendel.  The “Love Jihad” or “Romeo Jihad” phenomenon, in which young Muslim men seduce non-Muslim women and teens, enticing them into marriage and conversion, culminating in emotional abandonment and in some cases outright exploitation, has been hotly debated in India, but there are precedents in the West, as well. Betty Mahmoody’s ordeal documented in Not Without My Daughter could be considered an early example. Such is also the case when Alain’s daughter elopes with a budding jihadist, irrevocably fracturing his French family in Thomas Bidegain’s Les Cowboys, which screens as a Main Slate selection of the 53^rd New York Film Festival.

Alain, his wife Nicole, sixteen year-old daughter Kelly, and young son “Kid” are French western aficionados, who enjoy kicking up their heels and singing cowboy songs at hoedowns. However, this 1994 round-up will be their last as a family. Much to their shock, Kelly has planned to elope with her secret boyfriend, Ahmed, the radicalized son of assimilated parents. With the help of his Islamist network, they cover their tracks quite thoroughly.

For years, Alain tirelessly searches for them, dragging the obedient Kid along to watch his back. Riffing on John Ford’s The Searchers and Paul Schrader’s Hardcore, Bidegain and co-screenwriter Noé Debré will take Alain into dangerous “No-Go Zones,” before the media was denying their existence. Ultimately, the relentless quest will eventually destroy Alain.

The Kid will duly pick up his standard, but he will try to be smarter about it. Nevertheless, Kelly’s reported proximity to radical Islamist circles greatly alarms him following the World Trade Center bombings and the London 7/7 attacks. Eventually, he will join an NGO relief organization active in the Middle East, hoping to glean information regarding her whereabouts. A mysterious American ransom-fixer might be able to help, but he demands the Kid ride shotgun on his latest dodgy mission first.

Les Cowboys looks like it might be the sort of film the director lost control of, in a good way. Like John Wayne in The Searchers, Alain is intended to be a portrait of corrosive obsession, but François Damiens (playing radically against his lumpy comedic type) humanizes him too effectively. Likewise, everything we learn about Kelly’s subsequent life suggests it is one of profound misery and regret. Sure, there is some kneejerk “Islamophobia” directed at Shahzana, one of Ahmed’s subsequent wives, forced by circumstance to accept sanctuary with the Kid in France. Yet the scene is question comes across as a clichéd and obligatory tack-on. However, their evolving relationship is arguably rather bold and touching, in a haram kind of way.

Those who know Damiens from frothier films like Heartbreaker or Delicacy may not recognize him as the grizzled Alain, but his performance deserves to be an award-winning career turning point. Finnegan Oldfield’s performance as the older Kid is also quite accomplished, depicting the maturation process with rarely seen complexity and sensitivity. Yet, the chemistry he develops with the arresting Ellora Torchia’s Shahzana is the film’s real knockout punch. As an additional bonus, John C. Reilly hams it up just enough, but not too much as the American security contractor.

Bidegain crafted Les Cowboys with unusual subtly. Details like when and where Kelly and Shahzana wear bandanas and headscarves have real significance. It is an uncompromising family tragedy, but it still manages to be deeply satisfying. There are several scenes that truly stay with you. Surprisingly highly recommended, Les Cowboys screens tonight (10/2) at the Gilman Theater, as part of this year’s NYFF.

LFM GRADE: B+

Posted on October 2nd, 2015 at 3:11pm.

By Joe Bendel. Welcome to a near future dystopia, where legalized drugs are the defining characteristic of the brave new society—or perhaps it is someplace in today’s Colorado, where a lot of British expats have congregated. Since a spotty form of time travel exists in this world, maybe it can be both. However, control over that new temporal technology will lead to even more trouble in Justin Trefgarne’s Narcopolis, which opens this Friday in New York and Los Angeles.

All of the drugs produced by the Ambro Corp come with founder Todd Ambro’s hollow personal guarantee. They are one hundred percent safe, but still head-smackingly effective. As the much abused and neglected son of addicts, he made legalization his personal crusade, so now he maintains his end of the bargain. At least that is the official story. As a narcotics cop or “dreck,” it is Frank Grieves’ job to keep the dangerous unlicensed stuff of the streets—basically anything not produced by Ambro.

Grieves has decidedly mixed emotions about his duties, especially since his corrupt squad chief officer makes no secret of his loyalties to Ambro. He also openly sniffs the company’s products, as is now acceptable in this day and age. Grieves was already on his bad side, but his use of scarce resources on a recent case has further perturbed the corrupt copper. Somehow, he has uncovered a series of bodies and suspects whose DNA is not in the system. Eventually, the elusive and frequently leather-clad Eva Gray will offer him an explanation, but he does not what to hear she is a freedom fighter from the future.

Narcopolis is not exactly a complex film, but you will be hard-pressed to explain just what the Ambro Corp is doing, beyond their core legal narcotics business—or why they are doing it, besides their general all-purpose commitment to villainy. Still, there is something darkly compelling about the film’s vision of post-legalization society. Drugs are now almost omnipresent, even in the top levels of the police force. Although its dystopian cityscape owes a clear debt to Blade Runner and its host of followers, the design team still makes it look slick and coolly oppressive.

Elliot Cowan is serviceable enough as Grieves and Jonathan Pryce gamely chews the scenery as the oddball Russian designer chemist Yuri Sidorov. Yet, somehow the characters never seem to connect with the audience or each other. It does not help that the villains are basically vanilla-flavored cardboard. Even more frustrating, Elodie Yung (Netflix’s Daredevil, District 13: Ultimatum) hardly has any chance to show off her action chops as Gray.

We pretty much know from the start who the mystery corpse is, because the film never gives us any other suspects, yet the revelation is still surprisingly potent. In fact, Trefgarne displays a fair degree of skill. Perhaps instead of marrying together a dystopian drug thriller with a time travel fate-changing fable, he should have focused solely on one or the other (probably the former). Let’s just say he’s no Timothy Woodward, Jr. We’d be happy to see another film from Trefgarne. Even though the pieces don’t quite fit together, genre fans should consider checking it out when it hits Netflix. There is something to it, but probably not enough to justify Manhattan ticket prices. Regardless, it opens today (10/2) at the Arena Cinema in LA and screens ‘round midnight this weekend at the IFC Center in New York.

LFM GRADE: C+

Posted on October 2nd, 2015 at 3:10pm.

By Joe Bendel. Believe it or not, the Thai government might have picked the absolute worst place for its new military clinic. It only just opened, but its future is already in doubt thanks to the ominous excavation going on around it. In fact, the land in question holds secrets that date back centuries. Still, as one patient observes in a rare moment of lucidity, it is a nice place to sleep. Sleep they will in Apichatpong “Joe” Weerasethakul’s Cemetery of Splendour, which screens during the 53rd New York Film Festival.

This is no ordinary satellite clinic. The patients here all suffer from a severe form of narcolepsy, presumably resulting from shellshock, frequently manifesting in a near catatonic state. They are here to sleep and Jenjira has joined her old friend (and onetime care-giver) Nurse Tet to volunteer. Along with Keng the psychic, she will mostly just sit by their bedsides, tending to their needs should they happen to wake. Despite his unconscious state, she feels increasingly “synchronized” with the still vital looking Itt. When he suddenly rouses, he confirms their connection.

While there are mildly erotic overtones, their relationship is essentially one of surrogate mother and son. After all, Jenjira is quite happily married to the shy but affable American Richard Widner. She devoutly prays for all three of them, leaving offerings at the shrine of two legendary Laotian princesses. They so appreciate her efforts, they come alive to visit Jenjira, warning her the hospital is built atop the burial ground of ancient Thai kings. This is not Poltergeist, but that sort of mixed land use is usually problematic. However, Weerasethakul maintains an ambiguous perspective on potential spirit interference with the living, albeit extremely sleepy patients.

Without question, Cemetery is one of Weerasethakul’s most accessible films to date. Unlike his over-hyped Palme d’Or winner Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives, it is fully stocked with richly developed characters and engaging situations. This time around, his forays into natural realism are—dare we say it—quite charming. Yet, there is still that seductive otherworldly vibe and the arresting use of the surrounding landscape.

The cast, led by Weerasethakul regular Jenjira Pongpas Widner, also contributes remarkably subtle and finely calibrated performances. Pongpas is wonderfully warm and earthy as her namesake. She develops some fascinatingly ambiguous chemistry with Banlop Lomnoi’s Itt, whose hesitancy and gentleness is strangely poignant. As Nurse Tet, Petcharat Chaiburi nicely balances strength and sensitivity, while Sujittraporn Wongsrikeaw and Bhattaratorn Senkraigul add grace and a spirit of enjoyment as the goddess princesses.

Sort of like the scene of the catfish ravishing the princess in Boonmee, Cemetery has a roughly analogous centerpiece in which attention is lavished on Jenjira’s badly swollen leg. While that was about all Boonmee had going for it, Cemetery needs no such provocative indulgences. In fact, it is an unnecessary distraction from the film’s full-bodied characterizations and redolent sense of place. Despite that misstep and a noticeable third act slackening, Cemetery is a deeply humanistic and surprisingly satisfying excursion into the mystical mysteries hidden in everyday plain sight. Highly recommended for those who appreciate the obliquely fantastical, Cemetery of Splendour screens this Wednesday (9/30) at Alice Tully Hall and Thursday (10/1) at the Beale Theater, as a Main Slate selection of this year’s NYFF.

LFM GRADE: A-

Posted on September 29th, 2015 at 9:21pm.

By Joe Bendel. It is a cold, hard, immutable fact of life that any nation surrendering control over its monetary policy must therefore use fiscal means to solve its fiscal problems. However, Miguel Gomes simply cannot grasp this self-evident principle. Unfortunately, in this case ignorance does not produce great art. Instead, Gomes proves the folly of didacticism with his three-film cycle, Arabian Nights, a haphazardly assembled grab bag of leftist tropes and half-baked literary archetypes that screens as three misguided Main Slate selections of the 53rd New York Film Festival.

In his initial intertitles, Gomes warns us his Arabian Nights has nothing to do with the traditional Arabic folk tales, even though it appropriates the title, as well as the use of Scheherazade as the narrator. These are episodes of woe resulting from Portugal’s austerity policies, allegedly passed by “a government seemingly devoid of social justice.” Of course, the Greek Syriza government has social justice coming out of its nose, but they passed an even more stringent austerity package. That is what happens when you can no longer devalue your way out of debt.

Be that as it so obviously is, Gomes is determined to score his ideological points as best he can. After a haltingly Godardian preamble in which Gomes literally runs away from the supposed ambition of his film(s), Scheherazade commences the motley tales of Arabian Nights: The Restless One. The first is a representationally inconsequential sketch about politicians and their erections.

Gomes then segues into the meat of the film, “The Cockerel and the Fire,” one of the least politically charged fables of the cycle. When an annoyingly shrill rooster is put on trial, a Dr. Doolittle-like judge is sent to hear his defense. It turns out, he is trying to warn people of future disaster resulting from a love triangle, which we then watch as a tale within the tale. In fact, the jealous lover’s morality play is reasonably diverting and incorporates texting in an unusual clever fashion. Sadly, the films loses all momentum with the didactic and repetitive “Magnificents,” in which a handful of structurally unemployed relief-seekers recount their sorrows in obsessive detail, before taking the plunge in a union-sponsored Polar Bear-style swim.

Vol. 1 is a problematically mixed bag, but there are elements here and there that give cause for hope. Nonetheless, Arabian Nights: The Desolate One is basically more of the same, even starting with a jokey, slightly grotesque warm-up. However, Desolate’s centerpiece, “Tears of the Judge” is by far the high point of the entire pseudo-trilogy. It also features a genuine, engaging performance from Luisa Cruz as the judged tasked with getting to the bottom as an increasingly outlandish house-that-Jack-built chain of crimes. It would be a winner if Gomes had spliced it out and sent it into the world as a short. Unfortunately, Desolate peters out during “The Owners of Dixies,” a true shaggy dog story that shows initial promise but drags on interminably.

Nonetheless, Desolate is easily the most watchable of the feature triptych, so it is not so random that Portugal chose it specifically as its official foreign language Oscar submission, at least if these were the only three films released in the country this year. Sadly though, all hope is quickly abandoned once Arabian Nights: The Enchanted One starts. Finally, Scheherazade appears in her own story, but it never really goes anywhere.

Yet, it looks downright plotting compared to “The Inebriated Chorus of the Chaffinches,” a nearly eighty minute observational pseudo-documentary about rugged bird trappers. No, seriously. These rustic gentlemen might be fascinating, but Gomes shows little confidence in them. Instead of letting them speak on camera, everything is explaining through Scheherazade’s on-screen text, making Enchanted a mighty chore to sit through.

Briefly, it perks up with “Hot Forest,” a tale within the non-tale, narrated by a Chinese exchange student who visited Portugal and became the kept woman of a rugged cop who sympathizes with the anti-austerity rioters. This might have amounted to something if Gomes had embraced the irony of a socialist demonstrating against exploitation, who turned into an exploiter himself, but Gomes just isn’t in the irony business. It is also another awkward example of how Gomes casually equates Asian women with sex objects, like the twelve Chinese “mail order brides” who turn up in “Tears of the Judge.”

Let’s not mince words. I am here to tell you the emperor has no clothes. Gomes’ Arabian Nights has no business being at the New York Film Festival or any half-serious fest. In any merit-based universe, it would be spell the end of Gomes as a filmmaker worthy of serious press attention, but critics have fallen in line behind it, intimidated by its leftist screeds. Nevertheless, as a viewing experience, it is sorely lacking. The narratives of the constituent stories are fragmentary at best, character development is almost nonexistent, and it all has a dingy, pedestrian visual style. Don’t buy the hype. There is no there there.

The Enchanted One is so lifeless and contemptuous of the viewer’s time, it drags down the previous two installments in retrospect. If you are dead set on getting a taste of Arabian Nights it should absolutely, positively be The Desolate One, but even that is not worth any great effort. They certainly do not need to be seen in a block to inform each other. There are only a handful of call-backs throughout the entire cycle and they are each mere throwaways. None of them are really recommended, but The Enchanted One should be resolutely avoided. For those who need to take their penance, The Restless One screens this Wednesday (9/30) at the Walter Reade, followed by The Desolate One on Thursday (10/1), and The Enchanted One on Friday (10/2), as part of this year’s NYFF.

LFM GRADES:
THE RESTLESS ONE: C-
THE DESOLATE ONE: C+
THE ENCHANTED ONE: F

Posted on September 29th, 2015 at 9:20pm.