By Joe Bendel. In 1993, Cuban youths liked their head-banging music just as much as their American counterparts—possibly more so. Of course, the underground scene was decidedly dangerous thanks to frequent police rousts and the ravages of AIDS. The latter will take on ironic significance in Cuban filmmaker Gerardo Chijona Valdes’ Ticket to Paradise, which screens during the 2011 Sundance Film Festival.
Cuba is no workers’ paradise for Eunice. Sexually abused by her widower father while her teacher turns a blind eye, she has reached her breaking point. After a physical altercation with the old man, she runs away from home in hopes of finding shelter with her grown sister. Quickly running out of money, she falls in with a trio of pill-pushing metalheads on their way to Havana. Alejandro, their informal leader, has told their butch girlfriend-with-benefits they are going for a concert – but he has different, rather foolish and shocking plans once they arrive.
From Gerardo Chijona Valdes’ "Ticket to Paradise."
Truthfully, the first half of Paradise is pretty compelling, as Eunice and her new found friends navigate the seedy underbelly of Communist Cuba. However, Chijona Valdes springs the horrifying twist too soon, leaving at least a full third of the film to wallow in his characters’ how-low-can-they-go suffering and depravity.
If Paradise was intended as pro-regime propaganda, it does not even come close to working. Throughout the film, the entire country looks like it is falling apart, while the law of the jungle seems to rule among the people. At least it faithfully propagates the myth of Cuba’s crackerjack health system, which must have been how the film was approved by some clueless apparatchik.
Miriel Cejas deserves considerable credit for her work as Eunice, enduring all manner of on-screen humiliations. It is not her fault that Paradise’s final scenes ring so false. (Instead, the blame lies solely with the manipulative story.) By and large, her three primary compatriots are also quite convincing, looking like they came straight off the streets themselves.
Chijona Valdes certainly creates a visceral atmosphere of menace and decay (of course, it’s not like any of his locations had been refurbished since 1993). His indulgence in lurid melodrama simply undermines what could have been a rare work of gritty Cuban naturalism. Interesting but ultimately just too much everything, Paradise screens again during the 2011 Sundance Film Festival this Tuesday (1/25), Thursday (1/27), and Saturday (1/29).
By Patricia Ducey. The Fighter opens with two brothers mugging their way through the streets of their working class neighborhood against the defiant wail of “How You Like Me Now,” and I’m hooked. I grew up in an Irish neighborhood, and I know this place. We had the fight in us too.
Director David O. Russell pays homage to all that life-affirming fight in his raucous, memorable The Fighter, the story of how one man comes into his own against all the odds, great and small. “Irish” Micky Ward (Mark Wahlberg) lives in the shadow of half brother Dick Eklund (Christian Bale), once a champion boxer, now a crackhead and neighborhood goof. Micky, an up and coming fighter himself, trains with Dick, still an able coach (when he shows up), while mother Alice (Melissa Leo) manages his budding career along with Dickey’s “comeback.” Not surprisingly, the chaos of his dope-addled brother, grasping mother and passel of sisters drowns out Micky’s own aspirations.
The movie opens as Dickey, partying at the crackhouse, almost misses the flight to one of Micky’s out-of-town bouts. Micky and his mother drag him to safety, again. Alice treads lightly on his drug problem, however, hoping he will just get over it–an HBO crew is filming a documentary on Dickey’s comeback and she doesn’t want to jinx it. She also needs Micky’s career to save Dickey; and, for now, dependable, stalwart Micky accepts his role as actor on Dickey’s stage.
But then he falls for sexy redhead bartender Charlene (Amy Adams), and she eventually for him. After he takes a bad beating in a mismatched bout his mother and brother set up, she is the one to voice what he cannot: he has to stop allowing his family to wreck his life. When Micky and Charlene take the first steps away from the family, this sparks the conflict that forms the rest of the film. Gone is the “ticket out of poverty” meme and the class struggle meme. It’s not about race either, as Russell notes with humor: as Dickey negotiates an alliance with a Cambodian clan in some petty criminal enterprise, the Cambodian spokesman accuses him of cheating him because of race. “No, no,” Dickey’s associate assures him, “We don’t hate Cambodians. White people do this to other white people all the time.”
Mickey is simply a man who must put his own life in order. He has to be willing to fight for his independence from anything that will drag him down – even a beloved brother. He is not a victim of drug abuse or of political oppression or the church or the mob or anything else outside of his own self-doubts. His family uses him because he lets them. Micky has to earn his freedom himself—and this is a deeply conservative, even ‘objectivist,’ narrative. Russell and his actors keep that idea at the forefront with ruthless precision.
The Fighter, as a boxing movie, is refreshingly absent the sentimentality of Rocky or the chilly artiness of Raging Bull. Micky and his brother simply love their sport, and are good at it. They have the physical strength to overpower and the mental acuity to out-strategize their opponents. Boxing is their work, and Russell thus limits the boxing scenes to two pivotal fights and does not fetishize the physical spectacle. As an aside: boxing, in my mind, does not glorify violence so much as the sense of fair play and courage that help restrain violence. Yes, boxing (like all sport) is ritualized mayhem, but it’s a celebration of a process that marks civilization’s triumph, however temporary, over our animal natures.
Russell also comments on a predatory media’s exploitation of people outside the intellectual space of the upper classes. He frames the story with an HBO crew filming a documentary about Dickey. The family think it’s about a fighting comeback, but that’s subterfuge. Eventually they see, to their horror, that it’s a cautionary fable about another lower class guy’s fall from grace into addiction. It “fits the narrative,” and Russell rightly mocks the media’s condescension.
Mark Wahlberg moves in for the knockout punch in "The Fighter."
The cast excels. Christian Bale transforms himself (without going overboard) into the part as big brother, part-crackhead Dickey, and a bleach-blond Melissa Leo terrifies us with her tiger mother Alice. At first, next to these two wild and voluble characters, Mark Wahlberg’s performance may appear muted, but suddenly we realize we can’t take our eyes off him. That’s how he catches and holds our attention—by whispering, by making us come to him. His small smile, for instance, when he finally convinces Charlene to give him her number, lights up the room.
But the script by 8 Mile’s Scott Silver (and three other WGA-credited writers) and director Russell’s work gave them the goods. Russell has said he wants to grab you by the throat and heart at the beginning of this movie, and he accomplishes his mission.
We recognize Micky’s conflict; we know it and feel it in our gut because it is so essentially human. We are almost afraid to root for him, let alone his brawling kin, but we watch and hope still. Filled with humor and pathos and a winning cast, The Fighter’s “message,” if there is one, is: stay off the ropes, get in the fight.
By Joe Bendel. She was an Israeli spy who probably would have fit more comfortably in the U.S. State Department than her own country’s diplomatic corps. She was a committed Zionist, but her real home was Cairo. Her name was Yolande Gabai de Botton (nee Harmor) and she is considered Israel’s greatest spy. Dan Wolman documents her glamorous but dangerous career in Yolande: an Unsung Heroine, which screens during the 2011 New York Jewish Film Festival, co-presented by the Film Society of Lincoln Center and the Jewish Museum.
Educated in France, Harmor was a dazzling light on Cairo’s social circuit. She put her charm to good use, gleaning intel from highly placed Egyptian officials on behalf of the prospective State of Israel. Ostensibly working as a journalist, she built up a network of informers, even within the Muslim Brotherhood, which proved invaluable to Ben-Gurion (BG as her son knew him) leading up to Israel’s formal establishment. In fact, her final coup was so significant it essentially spelled the end of her espionage work. More ominously, it also attracted the attention of the Brotherhood.
Clearly, Cairo represented Harmor’s glory days, in all respects. Given her affinity for the Egypt and its culture, she was considered something of a dove during her frustrating stint in Israel’s Foreign Ministry. Truthfully, a bit more context about the Arab-Israeli war and the terrorist attacks launched from the Egyptian controlled Gaza Strip would have helped the film. However, Wolman and Harmor’s surviving friends make a persuasive case that Israel’s intelligence and foreign policy establishment never properly recognized her contributions.
Yolande is one of several relatively brief (at just under an hour) but highly informative documentaries screening during this year’s NYJFF. Frankly her life would make a great narrative film. She might have been blond, but it seems like the sort of project that would appeal to Angelina Jolie’s sensibilities. Regardless, Wolman tells her story cogently, scoring on-camera interviews with a number of her more prominent colleagues. (The bland soundtrack could stand a bit of an upgrade, though). A short but fascinating doc, Yolande screens twice this Tuesday (1/25) as the New York Jewish Film Festival continues at the Walter Reade Theater.
By Jason Apuzzo. Variety and the few critics allowed to see Kevin Smith’s Red State at Sundance are panning it, with Variety calling it “a dull blade slashing wildly, predictably and ineffectually.”
Also, in a profanity-laced, 20 minute speech after the screening of his film, Smith announced that he would be self-distributing the film himself. According to Hollywood Reporter:
Smith lambasted movie studios for a system he said is unfair and outdated and too focused on advertising. Smith said that he had never intended to get into the business of the movie industry — noting that he’s simply a “fat, masturbating stoner” — but the state of the industry essentially forced his hand.
Translation: the film bombed, and he had no takers.
Deadline Hollywood is also reporting that even if there had been any enthusiasm for distributing his project among the many distributors who brought their teams to the screening, Smith alienated them all by generally acting like a psycho and insulting the distribution business. He also claims that this will be his second-to-last film.
Free Game Pass revoked. Kevin Smith=Game Over.
Also: this is another sign that political cinema is currently dead, having been killed, ironically, by the very people who practice it.
By Joe Bendel. For one young boy, it’s tough being the Swedish kid in his Danish school. While his father is an advocate of turning the other cheek, his new friend is a proponent of more direct action. As a global meditation on bullying, Susanne Bier’s In a Better World (trailer above) should probably be considered a leading contender amongst the nine shortlisted films for the best foreign language Oscar. Its chances will probably be further bolstered when it screens this week during the 2011 Sundance Film Festival now underway in Park City, Utah.
Swedish plus conspicuous retainer equals frequent poundings for Elias, a good kid struggling with his parents’ separation. He idolizes his father Anton, an altruistic doctor often absent volunteering his services at a free African medical clinic. One fateful day, the new kid Christian intervenes in a bullying session, walloping his tormentor with a bicycle pump before pulling a knife on the larger boy. Problem solved.
Christian has a few issues himself, including a deep-seated resentment of his father following his mother’s untimely death from cancer. Though their fast friendship should represent healthy socialization for Elias, Christian proves to be a nakedly manipulative little wretch. Better is also not exactly subtly hinting at his self-destructive impulses, portraying him like Poe’s Imp of Perverse, constantly haunting the roof of a hulking old factory while brooding darkly. Yet, it will be Anton’s conflict-avoidance strategy when encountering a grown-up bully in front of the boys that serves as a catalyst for Christian’s potentially tragic plans.
Better is sort of like a Nordic Crash, with the teachable moments coming at a regular clip. Unfortunately, the film often confuses earnestness with profundity, offering plenty of the former, but not nearly as much of the latter. In fact, it seems like Bier somewhat loses control of her message. Comparing the brutality Anton witnesses in Africa with Christian’s escalating anti-social behavior, she clearly implies the tendency towards the animalistic is present in all of us, even ostensibly civilized Scandinavians. Yet, one could easily conclude within the context of the film that a little fight out of Anton might have been more productive, preventing considerable tragedy in both settings.
Though laboring under Better’s self-conscious serious-mindedness, much of the ensemble distinguish themselves rather well. As problematic as his character seems in retrospect, Mikael Persbrandt brings a compelling dignity to Anton, largely selling his Gandhi routine in-the-moment. After accepting too many villainous roles in English speaking productions, Ulrich Thomsen redeems himself with a deeply humane supporting turn as Christian’s grieving father Claus. Amongst the young actors, William Jøhnk Nielsen’s work is particularly notable, projecting the full range of emotions roiling within the understandably pained Christian.
Even if Better’s “so there” takeaway really is not there, it is the kind of prestige picture that perfectly suits the Academy’s sensibilities. Indeed, cinematographer Morten Søborg captures the harsh beauty of the African landscape, bringing to mind many past Oscar favorites. Clearly tremendous passion went into Better, but it falls short of its ambitions. While not an out-and-out failure, it should not be a priority for those making the Sundance scene when it screens again on Wednesday (1/26), Saturday (1/29) and Sunday (1/30).
By Joe Bendel. This might be the quietest film about punk-rock ever produced. Sure, Jonen could peel the paint off the walls when he was shredding, but his subsequent gig as Buddhist monk is much more sedate. Yet there is a connection between the two that screen writer-director Naoki Katô intriguingly explores in Abraxas (trailer above), which screens during this year’s Sundance Film Festival.
Abraxas will likely shatter most viewers’ preconceptions of Buddhist monks. In addition to his punk-rock past, Jonen is a bit of drinker with a cute but increasingly exasperated wife Tae and young son Riu. Genshu, the resident temple priest, also has an attractive younger wife, making Abraxas quite the recruitment film for Buddhist religious service. Genshu however, is at peace with his path. Jonen by contrast, hears the siren call of the extreme music he used to make. Yet it is not the past glory he misses, but the oneness with sound. He is not looking to fill a void, rather he seeks the void.
Indeed, the punk-rock playing monk might sound precious, but there is nothing cutesy about Abaraxas. To his credit, Katô never dumbs down the material, crafting one of the more thoughtful and thought-provoking films about Buddhism (or any religion) in quite some time. Despite the importance of punk, it is only heard sparingly in Abraxas. Instead, it is the sounds of rain and even more prominently silence that Katô shrewdly employs to set the tone throughout the film.
Still, Katô ‘s film is hardly the cinematic equivalent of a scholarly religious treatise. Dealing with universal issues like loss and the need for belonging, Abraxas would be an excellent companion film to Yojiro Takita’s Oscar-winning art-house breakout hit Departures.
Appropriately Zen-like, the entire ensemble demonstrates ease and restraint in their parts. Though Japanese alt-rocker Suneohair (a.k.a. Kenji Watanabe) gets to rock-out and act a little crazy from time to time, it is still a very grounded and sincere performance. In many ways, Kaoru Kobayashi quietly supplies the heart and soul of the film as Jonen’s senior Genshu, expressing wisdom and tolerance while sounding like a fully dimensional character instead of a cliché in the Kung Fu tradition. Manami Honjo brings a warm, smart presence as Genshu’s wife Asako – while as Tae, Rie Tomosaka supplies surprising depth and nuance in what could have easily been a standard issue nagging wife role.
Abraxas may very well be too subtle to generate the heat it merits in Park City. Yet, it is a richly accomplished film that deserves to find audience (and an American distributor). Highly recommended, Abraxas screens again on Tuesday (1/25), Wednesday (1/26), Thursday (1/27), and Friday (1/28) as part of the World Cinema Dramatic Competition at the 2011 Sundance Film Festival.
