Denis’ White Material

It is a term of disinterested contempt for the items left behind by the former French colonial remnant. It is not just their Johnny Hallyday CDs and whatnot. Maria Vial and her dysfunctional family also constitute “white material.” Whether or not they can ride out the civil war engulfing their unnamed African nation solely on the strength of her iron will be determined in Claire Denis’ White Material (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Vial cannot say she was not warned. As a last ditch effort, the French send choppers to implore her to leave the country while she can. However, Vial is made of sterner stuff than the French army. She refuses to evacuate until she has completed the annual coffee harvest. The rest of her family’s resolve is a very different story.

Her ex-husband Andre Vial believes he has cut a deal for their safety with the local mayor and aspiring warlord, the terms of which might even involve ownership of the plantation she is struggling to save. Following a humiliating brush with a rebel unit, her slacker son Manuel has adopted the skinhead look and a revolutionary persona. Meanwhile, her father-in-law wanders about like King Lear, apparently oblivious to the violent storm brewing. Increasing the precariousness of their position, the so-called “Boxer,” a symbolic leader and cooler head among the rebels, has taken refuge on the Vial plantation.

Clearly, Vial is operating under a form of denial as well, but at least she is action-oriented, recruiting workers amongst those stranded in-country with no means of escape. Anarchy is literally breaking down around her, yet she will not abandon her crop. Of course, there will come a point of metaphoric no return.

It is difficult to imagine a less hospitable environment than the Africa Vial calls home. The climate is harsh, the soil is infertile, and the factionalism is dangerously bitter. In fact, it is difficult to tell the rebels from the militias. One thing is clear though, with the exception of Andre’s son from his second wife, the Vials are white. As the Mayor ominously warns her, they stand out.

Given the revolutionary exhortations heard on the local reggae station, it is hard not to hear echoes of the violent hate radio that fueled the Rwandan genocide, though Denis keeps the exact nature of the conflict and combatants obscure. Unfortunately, that extends to the Boxer, whose reason for seeking shelter at the Vial estate is never adequately explained. Still, Denis viscerally depicts the chaos and confusion of the Civil War, fueling an ever mounting sense of impending doom.

There are a lot of ragged edges to Material, but Isabelle Huppert stands out as an indomitable (if perhaps foolhardy) spirit, a post-Colonial Scarlett O’Hara with a thousand times the guts of the weak willed men surrounding her. It is fascinating to watch her inter-family relationships, particularly with Andre’s second son with whom she shares no blood relation. Yet she accepts responsibility for this shattered family unit, even though she risks destroying it in her determination to save their Tara. In a departure from the genre programmers American audiences typically see him in, Christopher Lambert is also quite convincing as the undependable Andre.

Based on a novel by Doris Lessing, the implications of Material are fearlessly politically incorrect. Regardless of the fictional country’s colonial past, it is clear Vial belongs there. Indeed, the sight of the petite Huppert against the sweltering landscape is the defining image of the film, stark in its beauty. Though the ideological knee-jerks might have difficulty with its all-too realistic portrayal of post-Independence violence and anti-white racism, it is a smart, bracing film. Well recommended, it opens this Friday (11/19) in New York at the IFC Center.

MIAAC ’10: Lahore

Nothing says “goodwill” like kick-boxing. Unfortunately, when Dheeru Singh the new young Indian national champion is killed by Noor Muhammad (the Drago-like great Pakistani hope) in the Asian Games, it casts a pall over the upcoming Indian-Pakistani goodwill match. When the games proceed as announced, Singh’s brother Veerender may have some goodwill of his own to spread in Sanjay Puran Singh Chauhan’s Lahore (trailer here), which had its U.S. premiere at this year’s MIAAC Film Festival.

India and Pakistan share quite a bit of difficult history together, some of which involves the Punjab capitol of Lahore. Holding the good will games there would evoke certain historical rivalries under the best of conditions. However, emotions are inflamed after Muhammad kills Singh in the ring with a cheap shot. Neither the international kick-boxing authorities nor the Indian government press the matter though, so as not to jeopardize all that goodwill. Of course, Veerender has different ideas.

Originally a kick-boxer as well, he became a cricketer instead, because he lives in India and that is where all the prestige is. He still has a lot of the moves though, as we see when he lays a beat-down on a gang of toughs hassling his brother’s girlfriend Neela. Can brother Veeru get back into fighting shape fast enough to make the national team and return Muhammad’s good will with interest? He has the support of the esteemed Indian national coach S.K. Rao, as well as Ida, the patronized psychiatric intern with the Pakistani team.

Lahore’s debt to Rocky IV and The Best of the Best is blindingly obvious. Still, it mostly works as a martial arts film thanks to the completely credible fight choreography of Hong Kong action director Kuang Hsiung. Anyone with any familiarity with real world martial arts will be able to buy into his fight sequences. Singh’s tentative Romeo & Juliet romance with the Pakistani Ida is also executed relatively painlessly. Frankly, if the energy is there, the revenge-in-the-ring convention works just about every time. Yet, Chauhan deliberately tries his best to undermine it with an eye-rolling Kumbaya conclusion.

All too conscious of geo-political realities, Lahore tries to have it both ways, emphasizing Pakistan’s enormous human-dwarfing mosques and showing their kick-boxing team training in the mountains in scenes that seem to intentionally call to mind al-Qaeda camps. Yet, it also wants to assure us of our universal brotherhood, which evidently becomes clear after a few rounds of bruising combat.

Aanaahad and Sushant Singh are more or less adequate as the battling Singh brothers. Fortunately, the Pakistani villains supply the necessary color. Mukesh Rishi seethes malevolently as the hulking Muhammad and Sabyasachi Chakraborty chews the scenery with relish as the insidious Pakistani coach, who seems to have more hush-hush political clout than George Soros. He is nicely matched by Farooq Shaikh as the media-savvy Indian coach Rao.

There was a time when it would be unthinkable that India, the de-facto leader of the non-aligned nations, would receive such shabby treatment from any international body. Arguably though, Islamic Islamabad probably trumps the increasingly capitalistic India these days. Given such fundamental differences, whether or not they really can all just get-along remains to be seen. Despite its simplistic moral, Lahore brings plenty of crowd-pleasing fighting, making it a good potential fit for Magnolia Pictures’ Magnet slate of international genre movies. A big hit in India, it seems a more likely Hindi film to eventually score American distribution. While the official selection screenings of this year’s MIAAC have concluded, the Smita Patil sidebar continues at the Walter Reade Theater through Thursday (11/18).

MIAAC ’10: The Japanese Wife

It is hard to find a Japanese translator in rural Bengali. The converse is not so easy in Japan either. Somehow two pen-pal-lovers are able to make do with English, their halting second language, in Aparna Sen’s The Japanese Wife (trailer here), one of the best received films of this year’s MIAAC Film Festival, which is already available on DVD.

Unassuming does not begin to describe Snehamoy Chatterjee. A school teacher in a remote West Bengal village, he makes a mere $100 a month. His only joys are the letters and packages he receives from Miyage, a pen pal he found through a magazine classified. Also quite shy, she recognizes a kindred soul in Chatterjee, but is anchored to Japan and the sick mother she cares for. Nevertheless, she proposes a marriage of the spirit, consummated by the post. For fifteen years, they remain faithful to each other, even as fate brings Sandhya, his aunt’s attractive god-daughter widowed at a tragically young age, to test his fidelity. While their idealized love might endure jealousy and temptation, there are more ominous clouds on the horizon.

Wife is an unabashed, heartstring-tugging tearjerker in the tradition of Il Postino. It might be manipulative as all get-out, but it works in spades. Dubbed a “love poem by Aperna Sen” in the trailer, there is indeed something poetically beautiful about their chaste love and the emotional support they lend each other across geographic and cultural boundaries. Frankly, it seems like its DVD release was premature, because if there was ever an international film tailored made for breakout American art-house success, it would be Wife.

Ironically, Rahul Bose and Chigusa Takaku really do not have the chance to develop chemistry as a couple, but they are both sweetly endearing as Chatterjee and his title wife, respectively. On-screen nearly the entire film, Bose finds the right balance, portraying the schoolteacher as oh-so mild-mannered and withdrawn, yet never to the point of freakishness. Though Takaku is an ethereal presence during most of the film, she is radiantly beautiful and emotionally devastating in her final scene.

Sen grounds viewers in the realities of West Bengal, where the idea of jetting off to Japan is as unrealistic as hitching a shuttle ride to the moon. The viscous mud oozes through her lens, yet ultimately her imagery of the traditional white sari mourning dress defines the tenor of the film.

Wife is international cinema for people who hate foreign films. It will make grown men bawl like babies. Highly recommended, particularly for fans of films like Departures, Wife is currently available at Netflix. It also scored a major hit last night at MIAAC, which continues tomorrow (11/14) at the SVA Theatre.

MIAAC ’10: Ashes

Indo-Americans seem to be under-represented in New York’s seedy drug world. This is a good thing. However, one son of Indian immigrants tries to earn a quick crooked buck while caring for his emotionally unstable older brother. As one would expect, something has to give in Ajay Naidu’s Ashes (trailer here), which had its New York premiere last night at the 2010 Mahindra Indo-American Arts Council Film Festival.

Ashes is in major denial. He insists his drug dealing is temporary and only “herbal” in nature. Yet, he just helped broker a major deal to facilitate the distribution of opium imported from India, almost inadvertently. Like it or not he is up to his neck in some serious business. At the same time, his chemically unbalanced older brother Kartik shows signs of relapsing. However, with major power plays going down, he reluctantly accepts his brother’s less than persuasive assurances. He is also neglecting his own girlfriend, suspiciously paying more attention to the machinations his patron’s mercenary lover Jasmine (played by Naidu’s fiancé producer Heather Burns).

Naidu seems to be going for an early Scorsese-style street-level morality tale customized to reflect the Indo-American experience. It doesn’t quite get there, but it gets the grittiness right. Frankly, the brother’s keeper drama is surprisingly strong, with Naidu and Faran Tahir looking and acting quite convincing as the second generation brothers, Ashes and Kartik respectively. In contrast, the intentionally murky criminal subplot does not work as well, as various gangsters wash in and out of the film without effectively establishing an identity or their place in the underworld hierarchy.

An intense screen presence, Naidu really outshines most of his cast. As director, he makes the most of his BKLN locations, without overdoing the Coney Island backdrops. Frankly, it has an evocative pre-Giuliani vibe of ever present menace and hopelessness. Yes indeed, times are changing.

While imperfect, Ashes is a promising directorial debut, rough around the edges in an old school New York kind of way. Those who dig indie crime drama should find its spirit to their liking. A somewhat outside-the-box selection for MIAAC, Ashes goes global with its UK premiere this coming March as the closing night film of the London Asian Film Festival. Here in New York, the MIAAC Film Festival continues this weekend with official selections screening at the SVA Theatre and the Smita Patil sidebar underway at the Walter Reade.

The Somewhat Skeptical Environmentalist: Cool It

When did skepticism become a term of derision in the scientific community? In truth, Bjørn Lomborg is not a so-called global warming “denier.” He agrees the Earth’s overall temperature is rising, but he takes issue with some of the more inflated estimates. It seems Lomborg’s primary sin though, is his application of rigorous risk assessments and cost-benefit analysis to the global warming debate. Having been likened to Adolf Hitler by Dr. Rajendra Pachuari of the UN’s Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (yes, seriously), Lomborg gets a chance to speak for what he considers the maligned middle ground of the warming debate in Ondi Timoner’s new documentary, Cool It (trailer here), which opens today in New York.

The Danish Lomborg always considered himself “lefter than left,” but when he chanced across an article by the late iconoclastic economist Julian Simon, his apostasy began. Simon argued, contrary to popular belief, the state of the Earth was actually improving, in large measure due to the benefits of capitalist prosperity. Professor Lomborg took up the refutation of Simon’s book as a long-term class project, but they found themselves confirming far more than they contradicted. When he published their findings in his book The Skeptical Environmentalist, Lomborg’s name quickly became anathema to many of his academic colleagues.

Indeed, the extent to which Lomborg has been vilified, even persecuted, for deviating from politically correct orthodoxy is simply scandalous. Yet the Dane appears to be a happy warrior, embracing the warming debate as the next great fight. In conceding the general warming premise, he glosses over many legitimate questions about the integrity of the data often sited. Yet, he still gives warming partisans fits. For instance, Lomborg is tacky enough to actually run the numbers on the Kyoto Protocols, finding that at a projected cost of $250 billion in lost GDP annually, the EU’s plan to cut emissions 20% below 1990 levels will only cool the planet a negligible 0.1 degrees F. That is an inconvenient truth.

Indeed, the Al Gore documentary takes it in the shines and the credibility throughout Cool. Not simply held up as an example of reckless scare-mongering, Lomborg eviscerates several of Gore’s claims that gained particular traction in the public consciousness, including the Hurricane Katrina canard. Perhaps the best example of Lomborg’s rigorous methodology comes courtesy of the poor polar bears supposedly jeopardized by global warming. According to Lomborg, at the cost of $250 billion annually, implementing Kyoto might save one single polar bear a year (whose population has been steadily increasing over the past several years). In contrast, he suggests those truly concerned about polar bears work to crack down on poachers who kill 250 to 300 each year.

Frankly, Lomborg lets his critics off easy, never really delving into why they generally oppose geo-engineering efforts to directly counteract the physically warming process. Instead, they only embrace command-and-control solutions that would have an enormously disruptive effect on our economy. Hmm, could it be the draconian “remedies” are really the goal in and of themselves? If someone really believed warming was a significant problem, would they not embrace a widely diversified set of solutions? Lomborg does.

While Cool is best when Lomborg is sawing Gore off at the knees, his third act flags somewhat. Though laudably intended to be constructive and positive, Lomborg’s whirlwind tour of scientific research and civil engineering projects he believes have cooling potential largely blur together into a montage of the Skeptical Environmentalist talking to people in lab coats. Still, his call-to-action takeaway that the EU's $250 billion could be spent in ways far more beneficial to humanity and our planet is hard to dispute.

Though Cool claims Lomborg takes heat from both sides, judging from what viewers see in the film, it really only seems to come from the warming true believers. One can understand why they are upset, considering how incisively Lomborg critiques the Kyoto-style approach.

As documentary filmmaking though, Cool is quite conventional, employing run-of-the-mill graphics and talking head sound-bites. Indeed, it has nothing like the grungy, up-close-and-personal voyeurism of We Live in Public, Timoner’s documentary profile of internet pioneer Josh Harris. On the other hand, Lomborg is an exponentially more pleasant figure to spend time with. He also has a genuine knack for explaining and distilling complex concepts, which prevents the film from bogging down in jargon and Powerpoint. Breezy but informed and informative, Cool should challenge many preconceived notions about the warming controversy. It opens today (11/12) in New York at the Angelika Film Center.

Genocide in Our Times: Shake Hands with Devil

Kofi Annan has blood on his hands. He might not have personally fired a shot in Rwanda, but his actions ensured the violent Hutu extremists remained heavily armed. So claims Lietenant-General Roméo Dallaire, the French-Canadian military commander of the UN peacekeeping forces in Rwanda. Based on Dallaire’s memoir, Roger Spottiswoode’s Shake Hands with the Devil (trailer here) is an incisive indictment of the UN’s willful negligence during the 1994 mass killings that opens tomorrow in New York.

Dallaire is a haunted man, haunted by the ghosts of 800,000 Rwandans who were murdered while he stood idly by, handcuffed by the UN’s restrictive rules of engagement and a lack of supplies. It need not have been so. As he first arrives at his post, the situation appears promising. All sides profess to want peace and are actively engaged in UN sponsored negotiations. Yet, there are troubling signs, like the growing presence of informal Hutu militias strutting through the streets.

Initially, the UN Mission in Rwanda (UNAMIR) seems to get a lucky break when a well-placed source steps forward with information about huge weapons stockpiles in the ruling Hutu party headquarters. However, before Dallaire can launch his planned operation to seize the arms, the UN peacekeeping command orders him to stand down. Instead of confiscating the arms, he is to inform the hardline Hutu president of what they know and he is forbidden to offer asylum to his informer. At this point, the die is cast. Annan and the UN might as well have issued a proclamation declaring genocide season officially open.

A strong likeness of the real Dallaire, Roy Dupuis (who could also pass for Bruce Campbell’s older brother) gives a depressingly good performance, vividly showing the General’s military bearing cracking under the weight of the horror and futility of his position. Indeed, Shake is a rare film that genuinely respects military figures, like Belgian Colonel Luc Marchal, portrayed with genuine humanity by Québécois actor Michel Mongeau.

Frankly, Shake is an angry film and well it should be. Still, Spottiswoode never loses sight of the visceral personal drama as Dallaire struggles to save as many Rwandans as he can—30,000 ultimately—and a semblance of his soul. Of course, he could have saved so many more lives had Annan and the UN made different decisions at several junctures. Dallaire and Shake do not let the U.S. off the hook either, excoriating American policy makers for opposing the use of the term “genocide” for the horrors unfolding in Rwanda because of the legal ramifications it carries. (For the record, Clinton, Albright, and Cohen would be the ones to thank for that stain on our national honor.)

Filmed on location in Rwandan, often at the sites of the actual genocidal atrocities, Shake is certainly realistic. Surprisingly though, there is very little graphic horror depicted on-screen, since viewers see the killings through Dallaire’s eyes, mostly after the fact. Mournful and damning, Shake is one of the best politically charged narrative films released theatrically this year (finally, after spending several years on the festival circuit). Highly recommended, it opens tomorrow (11/12) in New York at the Quad Cinema.

Portrait of Evil: Eichmann

It was the final coda to Nuremberg. Fifteen years after the celebrated military tribunal, the State of Israel captured, tried, and ultimately executed Adolf Eichmann, often described as “the architect of the Holocaust.” Not surprisingly, Eichmann’s evilly banal presence in Israel stoked the emotions of the populace. Under orders to extract a quick and definitive confession, Captain Avner Less faces the challenge of a career in Robert Young’s Eichmann (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

A venal martinet, Eichmann was committed to the Fuhrer’s Final Solution, but cunning enough to keep his name off incriminating documents. Though thoroughly implicated at the Nuremberg Tribunal, Eichmann maintained his relative innocence, claiming to be a mere transportation officer. He simply made sure the trains ran on time. What they carried was someone else’s department, or so he claims. Yet, we see in flashbacks not just the extent of his knowledge of the Holocaust, but his often shocking acts of direct inhuman cruelty.

Based on the actual transcripts of Less’ interrogation, Young's Eichmann captures their verbal cat-and-mouse game quite effectively. It is also surprisingly forthright in its depiction of the Third Reich and its allies, including those in the Middle East. In particular, a critical turning point in the interrogation hinges on Eichmann’s relationship with the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, arguably the highest ranking Muslim cleric of the day and a vocal ally of the National Socialists. Eichmann denies taking him on a tour of a concentration camp, but Less uncovers a paper trail of gifts the Mufti bestowed on the supposedly self-effacing officer of the Reich.

Given the obvious constraints of its interrogate-and-dissemble format, Eichmann is understandably a bit stagey. However, the way the film delves into the historical record is quite intelligent. A cinematic chess game, Eichmann is a film aimed at the head rather than the heart.

Indeed, this would be the trial that inspired Hannah Arendt’s famous phrase “the banality of evil,” so do not expect Thomas Kretschmann to menacingly chew the scenery as Eichmann. Yet, he is able to convey the animalistic intelligence lurking beneath his bland and unassuming exterior. It is a fascinating depiction of horrific figure. In one especially telling scene, two guards bring three plates of food into Eichmann’s holding cell. He is to pick one, allowing the guards to eat the other two, except they cannot, because he keeps switching the plates. Is it paranoia or deep-seated contempt for his Jewish jailors?

Young and screenwriter Snoo Wilson deftly walk a fine line, endowing Eichmann with human failings, without humanizing him, never inviting sympathy for the mass murder in any way. Unfortunately, Troy Garity (the son of the infamous Tom Hayden) is rather lifeless as Less, serving as a weak counterbalance to the coldly calculating Eichmann. Still, it is always entertaining to watch Stephen Fry playing smart, somewhat arrogant authority figures, in this case Less’ politically savvy superior Minister Tormer.

Despite its underwhelming protagonist, Eichmann deserves credit for its well thought-out cinematic representation of the National Socialist mass murderer. Again, Kretschmann’s work as the title personage is chillingly focused, but considering his previous Nazi portrayals in films like The Pianist, Downfall, and Valkyrie, he ought to start accepting lighter, more congenial parts for a change or risk becoming the next type-cast Maxmillian Schell (who was in fact an ardent Nazi foe, whose family had been forced to flee Germany in 1938). Definitely worth seeing, Eichmann opens this Friday (11/12) in New York at the Quad Cinema.

Attention-Seeking Behavior: Con Artist

Mark Kostabi is an artist you can make money selling. That is high praise indeed coming from an especially commercial gallery owner. However, he never calls Kostabi a great artist—quite the contrary. Such is the nature of self-styled “celebrity artist” Mark Kostabi’s career, which director Michael Sládek shrewdly documents in Con Artist (trailer here), which opens this Friday in Brooklyn.

Opinions of Kostabi’s art vary widely. He does have his brave defenders, including the California gallery owner who mounted his first unheralded show. However, they are usually referring to his early work. Kostabi now operates more as a factory manager than an artist. While he approves conceptual designs, the actual art is carried out by his staff. Typically, Kostabi’s only hands-on work comes when he signs his name.

Andy Warhol was undeniably a formative influence on Kostabi, certainly through his work, but particularly for the way the pop artist cultivated his celebrity status. However, the student has arguably surpassed the teacher in elevating the pursuit of fame to an art form in itself. Essentially, Kostabi argues his entire public persona and artistic business constitute an ongoing performance art piece, much in the spirit of Andy Kaufman. Of course, he is still making sales and maximizing profits, while utilizing the labor of others. Individually, his pieces are not outrageously expensive, but you know what they say about volume. Ka-ching.

As the title indicates, Sládek maintains a healthy skepticism regarding Kostabi’s artistic legitimacy. His approach is subversive rather than reverential, often undercutting Kostabi’s credibility with unflattering footage of the unrestrained egomaniac (the public access game show is particularly discrediting). Though evidence of Kostabi’s preoccupation with his provocateur image might seem embarrassing, it seems as long as you are pointing a camera at him, Kostabi will happily be your best friend.

Obviously, access to the publicity hungry Kostabi was not a problem for Sládek. However, he gets credit for presenting an unusually balanced portrait of his subject. In fact, his talking head segments are often absolutely withering in their appraisal of Kostabi, both as an artist and a person. Indeed, Con sometimes feels more like a satire than a documentary.

Con is a highly watchable, level-headed accomplishment in documentary filmmaking. Since Sládek never buys into Kostabi completely, he is not compelled to minimize or defend the artist’s excesses. As a result, the audience can watch his frequently crazy antics and come to their own conclusions. Con is a surprisingly funny film with a rebel spirit and a hardcore punk soundtrack to match. One of the highlights of the 2009 Tribeca Film Festival, Con kicks off its theatrical run this Friday (11/12) in Brooklyn at the ReRun Gastropub.

Zen & Its Opposite: Onibaba

Forget the Ghostface from the Scream films. It simply cannot compete with the creepiest movie mask ever, as seen Kaneto Shindō’s first great pseudo-horror film. Based on a Buddhist fable, Shindō’s atmospheric Onibaba (trailer here) screens this Friday as the next fitting selection of the Japan Society’s ongoing Zen & Its Opposite film series, which highlights the intersection of Zen Buddhism and the dark side of humanity.

Alas, poor Kichi. We never meet the poor farmer pressed into military service in Sixteenth Century feudal Japan. He left behind his unnamed mother and wife, who prey on wayward samurai, selling their armor and weapons to survive. Evidently, he was recently killed in a futile military campaign, according to Hachi, a fellow peasant shanghaied alongside Kichi. However, his mother has her doubts about the circumstances of his death and the messenger bearing the news.

Kichi’s mother also does not like the way Hachi leers at her daughter-in-law. Her concerns are justified. Before long, Kichi’s presumed widow is regularly meeting Hachi for amorous assignations. Fearing she will be unable to survive without the younger woman, the mother-in-law begins a campaign of desperate manipulation. Then one dark and stormy night, while the none-too-secret lovers are together, an imposing samurai appears, demanding the older woman show him the way out of susuki grass. He happens to be wearing an unsettling mask suggesting an ancient devil-clown over what he assures the woman are unbearably handsome features. At first, she wants to see his beauteous features for herself and then gets certain ideas for re-establishing control of her domestic situation.

In Onibaba, nature is dark and foreboding rather than bright and cheerful. A perfect selection for the Opposite series, it also presents a fire-and-brimstone side of Buddhism in the older woman’s guilt trips completely at odds with the New Agey presentations of its reincarnation precepts common in western popular culture. She exhorts her daughter-in-law in no uncertain terms, sin now and pay for eternity.

Though there is no supernatural monster in Onibaba per se, Shindō still conveys the sense that some malevolent cosmic force is definitely at work. Indeed, there is great ambiguity about the nature of the mask. Better described as a sinister psychological thriller rather than an outright scary movie, it artfully instills a consistent sensation of foreboding. Definitely for adult sensibilities, Onibaba also frequently features its lead actresses topless (because of the heat, you see). It notches up a respectable body count too.

While Ozu often explored father-daughter relationships, Shindō seemed to be intrigued by the mother-daughter-in-law dynamic, which he revisited a few years later with Kuroneko. The relations between the women of Onibaba are particularly complex, fraught with considerable resentment as well as years of shared history. Nobuko Otowa makes one scary mother-in-law, yet she is also quite human and fragile. Disarmingly innocent one moment than recklessly hedonistic the next, Jitsuko Yoshimura brings manifold dimensions to the sort of dutiful daughter-in-law as well.

Though titled Zen and Its Opposites, this series could have easily been called something like “all-time great Japanese films not directed by Kurosawa and Ozu” instead. Onibaba is no exception. While it might have been genre programmer in its day, it is a legitimate masterwork from Shindō. Highly recommended, it screens this Friday (11/12) on the big screen at the Japan Society.

Asia Society: Three Outlaw Samurai

It is three hardnosed ronin (masterless samurai) versus a small army of samurai. Good luck faceless hordes, you’re going to need it battling Sakon Shiba and his two new acquaintances. However, the three do not start on the same side in Hideo Gosha’s Three Outlaw Samurai (trailer here), which screens this Friday in New York at the Asia Society as part of their ongoing Japanese Cinema 1960s film series.

While there are obviously thematic similarities between Outlaw and Kurosawa’s Yojimbo, Gosha’s film was actually based on his early 1960’s television show of the same name, making Shiba and his comrades-in-arms some of the first television characters to make the jump from the small box to the large screen. Gosha also became the first television director to take the big step up to features. Yet, as a representative of the samurai film, Outlaw is a complete, self-contained feature, with plenty of hack-and-slash action and tragic fatalism to satisfy genre devotees.

By chance, Shiba happens across three desperate peasants holding hostage the daughter of their local magistrate. They hope to use her as leverage to gain more humane conditions for the peasantry. They even have an official appeal to present when the head of the clan arrives for an official inspection. Of course, the magistrate is having none of it, but his strong-arm tactics backfire, turning bemused spectator Shiba into an active ally of the peasants. It also leads to the defection of garrulous Kyojuro Sakura, the Porthos of the three outlaws, who feels a greater loyalty to the peasant stock from which he came. Though he finds the whole affair rather tacky, Einosuke Kikyo remains in the magistrate’s service, but considering how well he and Shiba seem to get along (not to mention the film’s title), it only seems a matter of time before he changes sides as well.

If not a classic on the level of a Yojimbo, Outlaw is an artfully crafted film delivering everything one could ask for from a film about three ronin anti-heroes. When Shiba, Sakura, and Kikyo finally team-up and take on the clan, they are all business, but not distractingly superhuman. They might cut down a force that out-numbers them fifty to one, but they get a bit dinged up in the process. Yet, true to the spirit of Jidaigeki cinema, it ends with a bittersweet note rather than rousing triumphalism.

Tetsuro Tamba (Tiger Tanaka in You Only Live Twice) nails the square-jawed gunslinger with a conscious vibe of Shiba. He is one bad cat. Likewise, Mikijiro Hira rakishly chews the scenery as the hedonistic Kikyo. Only Sakura, the Oscar Madison samurai, seems like a character firmly rooted in TV land, yet Isamu Nagato brings a measure of pathos to him as he wrestles with his guilt stemming from an unfortunate incident early in the film.

Not currently available on DVD in the U.S., Outlaw is the sort of period action that has earned legions of fans for Japanese cinema. Briskly paced and well staged by Gosha, it should be a real crowd pleaser when it screens this Friday (11/12) at the Asia Society—and the tickets are free.

DOC NYC ’10: Discoveries of a Marionette

Bjarte Mørner Tveit has some home movies to show and some sea stories to tell. They are not really his, but his grandfather’s. For years, the luxury liner captain was a towering figure to his grandson. However, when Captain Alf Mørner gave his film school dropout grandson a box of super-8 film from his exotic ports-of-call, it began a process of understanding that culminated with Tveit’s debut feature documentary, Discoveries of a Marionette (trailer here), which screens tomorrow as part of the inaugural DOC NYC at the IFC Center.

True to Nordic stereotypes, the old Captain was not much of talker, rarely dispensing wisdom to his intimidated grandson. He was a robust gent, who seemed to enjoy life and the company of adults. Yet, with mortality approaching, he bestowed the box of tapes on Tveit and consented to a series of on-camera interviews. Unfortunately, he died shortly thereafter, leaving Tveit to piece together Mørner’s narrative on his own.

Indeed, Mørner led an eventful life, having set mines for German war vessels as part of the Norwegian resistance during WWII. Strangely though, Tveit steps on his lead, quickly dispensing with what sounds like the most dramatic period of Mørner’s life. Instead, he focuses on Mørner the sea captain, most likely since this was how his family best knew him.

Though Tveit and closely collaborating producer-cinematographer Tortstein Grude often spruce up the 8mm footage with some clever animated effects, subtly bolstered by Arne Hovda’s ambient score, there is no getting around the fact that Marionette largely consists of somebody else’s grainy old home movies. Clearly, Tveit had no editorial distance from his subject, concentrating on the Mørner of family lore. Of course, that does not mean a heck of a lot to most viewers. As a result, many will be frustrated when Marionette ignores many obvious areas of inquiry. For instance, we only see pictures from a cruise Mørner put into Castro-era Cuba in passing. If the former freedom fighter had any misgivings about touring the island gulag, Tveit declined to explore them on film.

It seems safe to say Mørner was a flawed but heroic individual. While Tveit might believe he came to know his grandfather better through making the film, it is doubtful audiences will feel the same after watching it. They will definitely have an acute sense of Tveit’s insecurities though. While at times interesting, Marionette is just far too self-absorbed. It screens again tomorrow (11/9) at the IFC Center, as part of DOC NYC’s Viewfinders competition track.

Cold War, Soft Power: Disco and Atomic War

Soviet television was so stilted and corny, even the Finns made fun of it. The Estonians saw them do it too, because they secretly watched the programs broadcasted by their Scandinavian neighbors. They also enjoyed quite a few American exports on Finnish television, much to the alarm of the Communist Party. Though they might seem cheesy to us now, Jaak Kilmi and Kiur Aarma explain how programs like Dallas and Knight Rider helped undermine the Soviet empire in their droll documentary Disco and Atomic War (trailer here), the best documentary of the year so far, which opens this Friday in New York.

For Estonians of the filmmakers’ generation, Finnish TV was significant beyond mere entertainment. Kilmi recalls posting letters every week to his cousin in the south relating the Ewing family’s latest scandals. Young Joosep’s early years revolved around the illegal Finnish convertors he helped his father sell, learning the fundamentals of the black market at an early age. Indeed, nearly every Estonian seems to have been involved in some small act of rebellion, for the sake of their Finnish TV.

Of course, the Soviets were not thrilled with the Finish broadcasters and they let them know it. In fact, Disco is an eye-opening reminder of the extent to which Finland fell within what the Soviets considered their sphere of influence. To their credit, Finnish TV programmers stuck to their guns, reporting the truth of the 1968 Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia, leading to student protests on the streets of Helsinki. This also meant that Estonians knew the truth as well.

As important as the shocking images from Prague were, Kilmi and Aarma suggest the entertainment programming had a greater long term effect winning Estonian hearts and minds. It turns out Estonians dug Knight Rider just as much as the Germans. Disco dancing Finns and Star Wars the movie were also big hits (of course, this was before Lucas started mucking it up with new CGI).

However, the greatest triumph of what the film’s experts dub “soft power” might have been a fateful late night screening of Just Jaeckin’s Emmanuelle, the breakout soft-core porn film starring Sylvia Krystel that inspired dozens of sequels (which I’m sure everyone reading this is completely unfamiliar with). Officially, nobody was watching in Estonia either, but let’s just say there were a lot of tired people at work the next day.

Life under the repressive Communist system was certainly serious business, but Kilmi and Aarma have crafted some of the wittiest and breeziest cultural history viewers are likely to see on film for quite some time. They have a shrewd eye for visuals that playful tweak the dour Communists and convincingly evoke the spirit of the times with dramatic recreations of episodes from their childhoods. Ardo Ran Varres’ groovy soundtrack, heavily employing vibes and drum breaks, also helps maintain a lighthearted spirit.

As entertaining as Disco is, on a per-frame basis, it has to be the most informative documentary of the year. In its way, it is a testament to the innovative spirit of the Estonian people, who consistently found new ways to subvert Soviet censorship. It also demonstrates there is no such thing as a closed system for information, even in an oppressive state like the USSR. Enthusiastically recommended, Disco opens in New York this Friday (11/12) at the Cinema Village.

MIAAC ’10: Smita Patil Sidebar

Perhaps no actor embodied the challenges of India’s “Parallel Cinema,” or non-Bollywood filmmaking, better than Smita Patil (1955-1986). Though she made commercial movies as well, she is more closely associated with more independent art-films from the likes of Satyajit Ray and Shyam Benegal (who discovered her). Yet, one of her best-loved performances was a Bollywood-style Marathi actress. A pioneering Indian feminist, Patil’s daring work, controversial life, and tragic early death make her a perfect subject for a retrospective sidebar of the 2010 Mahindra Indo-American Arts Council Film Festival, co-presented with the Film Society of Lincoln Center.

The Patil sidebar offers an opportunity to see truly classic films from India often overshadowed by the glitz and glamour of Bollywood. However, Benegal’s Bhumika (The Role) gives viewers a chance to have their Bollywood cake and eat it too. Exploring gender roles and cultural prejudices in early to mid Twentieth Century India, Bhumika still features many lavish musical numbers from the films-within-the-film that Patil’s Usha reluctantly makes under her screen name Urvashi. She never loved the business, not even as a child star, yet her family’s poverty left her little choice.

Unfortunately, her work as an actress somewhat compromises Usha, or at least the public perception of her. This also leads to strife with her manager-husband Keshav Darvi, even though it is he who originally pushes her into the business. A much older family associate of dubious character, it is hard to understand why Usha stays with Darvi, yet for personal and cultural reasons, Usha keeps coming back to him. Of course, there are plenty of other men who show an interest in the actress, including Sunil Verma, a married director. While he is a person of substance, his philosophical materialism is not particularly healthy for Usha. Though she finds a surrogate family as the more-or-less concubine of the wealthy Vinayak Kale, the inequalities of their relationship are even more extreme.

Bhumika is like A Star is Born for India’s Parallel Cinema, with added elements of scandalous 1980’s mini-series, including abortion, spousal abuse, and plenty of infidelity mixed in for spice. Yet, Benegal gives it all an epic sweep, approximating the look of vintage cinema with his extensive black-and-white flashbacks. A role that clearly hit close to home, Patil projects both intensity and a fragility as Usha.

In addition to Patil, many familiar names and faces can be seen in this year’s MIAAC. Perfect as the old rascally government spokesman in Anusha Rizvi’s Peepli Live, one of the better reviewed and widely screened Hindi imports of the year, Naseeruddin Shah is an intriguing presence in Bhumika as Verma. Peepli also featured a catchy soundtrack performed by the world music group Indian Ocean, who are the subject of the documentary Leaving Home. After the triumph of Slumdog Millionaire, Oscar-winning A.R. Rahman is easily the most famous Bollywood composer of the day, whose new score graces Mani Ratnam’s Raavanan. The Tamil film also features Aishwarya Rai Bachchan, dubbed by 60 Minutes “the world’s most beautiful woman,” recognizable to followers of Bollywood for Bride and Prejudice and Jodhaa Akbar.

The 2010 MIAAC offers an interesting opportunity to compare and contrast the screen personas of Patil and Rai Bachchan, two iconic actresses of Indian cinema, from very different eras. With many films considerable longer than two hours, the sidebar also offers good value for the ticket price. The Patil sidebar runs at the Walter Reade Theater November 11th through the 18th, with Bhumika screening this Thursday (11/11) and the following Wednesday (11/17) and Thursday (11/18). The MIAAC film fest proper begins this Wednesday (11/10) at the SVA Theater.

On-Tour in Iraq: Striking a Chord

With the success of the Surge, the nature of military service in the Iraqi theater is much safer and more predictable. Of course, that is a blessing, but it also means American military personnel have more time to get bored and dwell on their separation from loved ones. However, nothing works like music to console the weary soul. Even though they might not be household names, the military brings in a number of entertainers to play for the troops, including singer-songwriter Nell Bryden, whose second tour military tour of Iraq and Kuwait provides the structure of Susan Cohn Rockefeller’s Striking a Chord (trailer here), a documentary short now playing the festival circuit.

The USO books the big name stars. The Multinational Corps handles the professional gigging artists without the fame or the egos. One such musician is Brooklyn-born Nell Bryden, the first entertainer recruited by Lt. Col. Scott Rainey, the chief of programming for the Corps. A blues-and-roots influenced pop vocalist, Bryden is a charismatic performer and a good sport. She does not simply chopper in and out for her gigs. Rockefeller shows her visiting hospitals and touring bases, talking to anyone looking for a sympathetic ear. Indeed, the rapport she quickly establishes with soldiers appears deep and genuine.

It helps when you check your politics at the airport. Several of her band members agree, noting the deep personal connections they have been able to make once they jettisoned their own political baggage. Likewise, Rockefeller tries to play it straight and avoid partisanship, largely succeeding. While bookending the film with grim expert commentary on post-traumatic stress syndrome arguably has certain implications, she also gives voice to soldiers’ frustrations that none of the good news they see unfolding in Iraq is ever reported in the western media.

Still, the personal and musical connections forged between Bryden and the soldiers she meets lie at the heart of the film. A flexible performer, she shows a strong intuitive sense of where to take each show, from Skynyrd-esque country-rock to a more R&B bag. (Produced in conjunction with songwriter Nile Rodgers’ We Are Family Foundation, his monster hit penned for Sister Sledge not surprisingly makes the set list.)

Clearly sympathetic to the men and women serving in the military, Chord makes a good faith attempt to avoid the larger controversies surrounding the war. As a result, the forty minute film is one of the better documentaries about the Iraqi conflict, of any length. Recommended as a short doc with legitimately good intentions, Chord screens tomorrow (11/6) at the Rocky Mountain Women’s Film Festival in Colorado Springs and next Friday (11/12) at the Red Rock Film Festival in Utah.

The Year’s Silliest Documentary: Client 9

Remember the Reese’s Pieces in E.T.? That product placement pales in comparison to Alex Gibney’s new ostensive documentary about New York State’s (still) disgraced former governor Eliot Spitzer. Though purporting to explain the politician’s meteoric rise and fall, it degenerates into an infomercial for the merry prankster political services of gadfly consultant Roger Stone. Yet, despite the steady parade of rumor and innuendo, Gibney fails to make a convincing case Stone is worth the money in Client 9 (trailer here), which opens today in New York.

Client is essentially two films. The first is an entertainingly diverting look into the world of Manhattan’s high-priced prostitution rings that could easily run on the E! network. The other is a massive PR campaign of behalf of Spitzer’s battered reputation. Gibney sees no evil in Spitzer’s record, deliberately ignoring the scores of the cases he brought that were unceremoniously thrown out of court and his dismal won-loss record. In truth, Spitzer was usually not looking to win cases on their merits, preferring to strong-arm his targets into financial settlements. (For a while, I worked with someone who had been laid-off as a result of one such settlement, but never in any close capacity.) One thing Gibney and Spitzer’s detractors could probably agree on though, was the politician’s ambition. The White House was thought to be his next step, which makes the recklessness of his behavior so inexplicably shocking.

Gibney does a legitimate public service by explaining tabloid cover-girl Ashley Dupré was only tangentially involved in Spitzer’s paid serial philandering, at most. Will she please go away now? However, Gibney’s decision to re-enact his interviews with Spitzer’s regular prostitute are is somewhat debatable, giving viewers nothing to judge her personal credibility (such as tone of voice, facial expressions, or body language). Yet, his partisanship creates far greater blind-spots.

To his credit, Spitzer accepts full responsibility for his downfall, but not Gibney. The filmmaker prefers to blame Roger Stone, a maverick New York based political operative (and a swinger Gibney hastens to add). Supposedly, Stone sent a letter to the FBI naming Spitzer as a client of the now notorious Emperor’s Club. The Feds say they never got it, but upon this slender reed, Gibney builds conspiratorial castles in the air. Evidently, Gibney believes U.S. Attorneys should ignore evidence sitting governors are involved in illegal prostitution rings, out of professional courtesy one supposes. Yet, like most johns, Spitzer was never ultimately charged, just eased out of office. Indeed, the whole case started as a money laundering investigation, and surely the government should be pursuing financial irregularities, right?

Eventually, Gibney just gets wild with the accusations, even going as far as to claim the New York Post deliberately timed promotions of Dupré’s column to coincide with Spitzer’s post-scandal appearances on CNN. (Okay, evidence please.) If even remotely true, they were probably doing CNN a favor, considering the reviews of the Parker Spitzer show. (“Vapid” raves Time Magazine. “Wretchedly unwatchable” echoes The Guardian, while The New York Times hails its “ickiness factor.”)

Gibney offers absolutely no substantiation anyone else had a hand in doing in Spitzer besides the disgraced pol himself. None. Again, Spitzer deserves limited acknowledgement for owning up to this forthrightly, which makes the rest of the movie such a weird exercise in scandal mongering. While Client is certainly watchable thanks to its voyeuristic look into the naughty world of high-end prostitution, it is the sort of unsourced, hearsay-ridden, overly-speculative, partisan-driven film that gives documentaries a bad name. For those in Gibney’s amen corner who do not worry about stuff like facts and logic, it opens today (11/5) in New York at the Angelika Film Center.

Outback High Noon: Red Hill

It is a land of wide open spaces—Oz, not the American plains. Still, it ought to be a fitting environment for a contemporary western shoot-out. There is even an indigenous killer on the warpath. However, it is the sheriff (technically an inspector in Aussie parlance) who wears the black hat in Patrick Hughes’s politically correct Red Hill (trailer here), which opens tomorrow in New York.

For the sake of his pregnant wife, Constable Shane Cooper requested a transfer to sleepy Red Hill. If truth be told, the town is slowly dying, but his new boss, “Old Bill,” is not about to embrace “changiness.” Alas, the earnest young constable makes a bad first impression when he shows up for his first day without his sidearm, because he could not remember which box he packed it in (that’s right, he packed his gun).

It turns out he might need that piece. Jimmy Conway, an aboriginal tracker and all around bad cat convicted of murder under dubious circumstances, has broken out of prison and is presumed to be heading to Red Hill for some old school revenge. As Old Bill says: “[When] Jimmy Conway rides into this town, he brings Hell with him.”

Indeed, Hill has a pretty rock solid Ozploitation foundation and for a while it is perversely amusing to watch Conway carve up his prey. However, Hill must have more walking scenes than any other film released this year. Too quickly it falls into a predictable pattern. Conway bonks Cooper over the noggin, dumping him on the outskirts of town, from where the constable staggers back to the action, only to find Conway’s fresh carnage when he finally arrives.

Frankly, Hill can be eye-rollingly PC as well. It quickly becomes clear Conway must have been framed for murder, even though he seems to be a natural born killer from what we see. Not that we are supposed to blame him—Old Bill and the town done him wrong, as none too subtle stand-ins for Australia writ large.

Hill has two things going for it. Steve Bisley is a thoroughly entertaining villain, chomping on the scenery with visible glee as Old Bill. More or less reprising his breakthrough role as an Aboriginal vengeance seeker in Fred Schepisi’s 1978 The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith, Tom E. Lewis’s Conway easily outdoes the badness of Denny Trejo’s Machete. Unfortunately, Ryan Kwanten is a light-weight, colorless protagonist, who underwhelms in every scene.

Despite showing early promise as a tawdry revenge thriller, Hill is ultimately undermined by its pretensions. As a result, it wastes a great villain and a perfectly good anti-hero. No Mad Dog Morgan, Hill opens tomorrow (11/5) in New York at the AMC Empire 25 and Chelsea Clearview.

Asia Society: Pleasures of the Flesh

How far did thirty million yen go in 1960’s Japan? Evidently, it was good for about a year’s worth of unrestrained hedonism. Despite such wild indulgence, nobody is really happy in Nagisa Oshima’s Pleasures of the Flesh (trailer here), which kicks off the Asia Society’s new film series, Japanese Cinema 1960s this Friday—and take note: admission is free.

Atsushi Wakizaka is a highly problematic anti-hero. A poor graduate student, he has developed a sexual fixation on Shoko, the teenaged student he tutors. She looks innocent but harbors dark secrets. Raped as a young girl, her assailant has reappeared to extort money from her family. At their behest, Wakizaka delivers the pay-off. In proper film noir fashion, when it is clear the odious creep intends to continuing bleeding them, the tutor pitches him off a speeding train. Unfortunately, there was a witness, but in Flesh, everyone is compromised.

Hayami Toshihiko is a government bureaucrat about to be exposed as an embezzler. If Wakizaka will hold his ill-gotten thirty million while he does his anticipated sentence, Toshihiko will maintain his silence. Wakizaka agrees, since it is relatively benign demand as far as blackmail goes. However, when the object of his affection marries another, he resolves the blow the cash on a year-long vice bender, killing himself just before Toshihiko’s scheduled release. With his grasp on reality increasingly questionable, Wakizaka engages in a series of profoundly unhealthy long-term assignations with any woman who vaguely resemble Shoko, thoroughly debasing them and himself.

Flesh has been dubbed Oshima’s foray into Pink Eiga, a category of naughty Japanese films with idiosyncratic cult and academic followings. Though its content is certainly mature, that seems like something of an exaggeration (though I claim no expertise in the genre). Rather, stylistically it feels much more in keeping with the so-called Japanese New Wave, which Oshima was often associated with, despite his protestations. Indeed, with its eerie off-camera dialogue and subtle blending of objective reality through Wakizaka’s fever dreams, Oshima keeps viewers off-balance throughout. One can also definitely see a kinship to films like Antonioni’s Blow-Up (which Flesh pre-dates by a year).

Regardless of subject matter, Flesh is definitely the work of an auteur, compellingly mixing unsettling thriller elements into a portrait of self-destructive angst. It is truly a director’s film, but Katsuo Nakamura is creepily effective as the woeful lecher. Given Wakizaka’s misogyny, it is hardly a great showcase for actresses, but at least Hiroko Shimizu conveys some strength and sensitivity as Keiko, the one woman of character he finds himself involved with.

While not exactly explicit per se, it is always perfectly clear how Wakizaka relates to women. Yet, it is all rendered quite artfully. A fairly bold selection to start the Asia Society’s new 1960s Japanese Cinema series, Flesh is a work of strange, hallucinatory power from a major Japanese filmmaker, well worth seeing on the big screen (for free) at this Friday (11/5).

Band of Brothers: Outside the Law

Two brothers are Algerian revolutionaries. The third is gangster. You might have trouble telling which is which—and not because of any family resemblance. While explosively controversial in France, Rachid Bouchareb’s portrayal of the post-War Algerian separatists ironically might be construed as politically incorrect on these shores. Regardless of whether you consider it a political drama or a crime film, Bouchareb’s Outside the Law (trailer here), Algeria’s official submission for best foreign language Academy Award consideration, is an entertaining film worth checking out when it opens in New York this Friday.

Law opens with its two most incendiary scenes. First, we watch as the brothers’ salt-of-the-earth father is dispossessed of his ancestral land. Then we witness the Sétif massacre of independence protestors by the French-Algerian police. Having thus firmly established his anti-colonial street cred, Bouchareb then commences to tell a story.

The years following Sétif have separated the brothers. Saïd has done his best to look after their mother, but Algeria is a tinderbox primed to explode. Facing limited opportunities, they immigrate to France, hoping the other two brothers will soon join them. Messaoud has been serving in Indochina with the French Army. Abdelkader has been serving time in prison for his revolutionary activity. With his scholarly look and ideological fervor, he definitely projects a Robespierre-like vibe.

Eventually, the prodigal brothers make their way to France, but it is a tense reunion. No longer on speaking terms with their mother, Saïd has worked his way up from pimp to Pigalle nightclub impresario. While nobody in the family considers this an appropriate activity for a proper Muslim, somehow they are all still willing to take his money.

The irony of Law is that of the three brothers, Saïd acts the least like a gangster. By contrast, Abdelkader ruthlessly employs strong-arm tactics to impose discipline within the FLN and to cow the Algerian expatriate community into compliance. Of course, he is not the only one willing to break a few eggs. A veteran of the French resistance, Col. Faivre has a free hand to do whatever it takes to crush the FLN, which he has no reluctance to exercise. Frankly, Law is one of those films that works surprisingly well, because the filmmaker somewhat loses control on the political implications through their greater commitment to telling a good story.

In truth, Law is a sweeping sibling saga that sets up an archetypal conflict between the brothers, playing Saïd’s materialism against Abdelkader’s zealotry, with Messaoud, the self-denying family man, caught in the middle. Though he is made-up to practically resemble Lon Chaney, Roschdy Zem is a riveting figure of pathos in Law. One of the best French-speaking actors working today, Zem is compulsively watchable in every scene. Likewise, Jamel Debouze captures the flair and swagger of a slick operator, while maintaining the appropriately flinty edge of a recent immigrant of uncertain position. Unfortunately, Sami Bouajila is the weak leg of the triad, always coming across more as a symbol than a flesh-and-blood character.

Though Law wears its anti-Colonialism on its sleeve, it hums along quite briskly as an epic historical seasoned with strong thriller-gangster elements (and really, after the last eight years, does anyone on either side of the aisle care to carry water for the French?). Indeed, it holds its own with the Mesrine duology and the Carlos roadshow, even though it is a relatively short 138 minutes by comparison. Even those well-attuned to ideology in films are still likely to be caught up Law’s unvarnished, action-driven depiction of the violent brothers. Definitely recommended, Law opens this Friday (11/5) in New York at the Paris Theatre, Manhattan’s single-screen landmark.

Jazz for Indies: Guy and Madeline on a Park Bench

John Cassavetes might not be synonymous with jazz, but he was certainly improvisational and several of his films even included jazz-related scores, like his masterful Shadows (which featured the music of Charles Mingus). Though billed as a tribute to the old-fashioned movie musical, Damien Chazelle’s feature directorial debut similarly has an uncomfortably intimate style, a gritty black & white look, and a moody jazz score, which cumulatively suggest he has spent a great deal of time absorbing the work of the pioneering independent filmmaker—a high compliment indeed. The result is Guy and Madeline on a Park Bench (trailer here), the highlight of the 2009 Tribeca Film Festival, at long last opening theatrically in New York this Friday.

Chazelle studied jazz drumming and originally conceived the male protagonist of Bench as a drummer as well. However, seeing and hearing trumpeter Jason Palmer blow at Boston club convinced him to cast the up-and-coming horn man instead. Palmer plays Guy, a very talented musician on the bandstand, who proves not so together when navigating his personal life.

Guy has recently dumped Madeline. While she was rather shy and reserved, at least she took an active interest in jazz. Guy soon takes up with the more outgoing Elena, who could not care less about his music, which is a shame, because it is very good. Though initially depressed by the break-up, Madeline slowly rebuilds her social confidence, taking jazz drumming lessons and exploring a possible relationship with a French expat in New York. Just as Madeline decides to take the plunge and join him in the City, Guy suddenly realizes how much he misses her.

In Bench, characters do indeed spontaneously break out into song, much in the style of classic movie musicals. However, since the film is largely set within the jazz world of clubs and jam sessions, most of the musical interludes do not feel so fanciful. Andre Hayward, a longtime stalwart of the Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra and groups led by Dave Holland, lends serious jazz cred to the proceedings, logically playing a jazz musician named Andre. In addition to a swinging trombone solo, he also takes the vocal lead on the rousing swinger “Cincinnati.” Also, the then sixteen year-old saxophone phenom Grace Kelly is one of many Massachusetts jazz musicians who recorded Justin Hurwitz’s soundtrack music, along with the Bratislava Symphony Orchestra.

Although the film occasionally veers off course (particularly during Elena’s odd encounter with a married man that seems out of character and irrelevant to the overall story), Chazelle makes a remarkably accomplished debut with Bench. The intense focus on its characters and their flaws is quite compelling, even discomfiting. Fortunately, the frequently swinging musical numbers and some hip tap choreographed by Kelly Kaleta help relieve the tension of the characters’ closely observed lives.

Think of it as a 1950’s MGM musical shot by Cassavetes on the mean-ish streets of Boston, and you might have a sense of Bench’s vibe. It is a rewarding film that really stands out from the pack. Warmly recommended, it opens Friday (11/5) in New York at the Cinema Village.

Comedy of Terror: Four Lions

Just because they are incompetent, it doesn’t mean they wouldn’t kill us if they had the chance. Yes, we can all laugh at Richard Reid, the notorious “Shoe Bomber,” but it is important to remember he intended to blow up a plane loaded with innocent people. In that spirit, a truly subversive new British comedy gives Islamist terrorists the merciless mocking they so richly deserve, without sugarcoating their murderous ideology. From director-co-writer Chris Morris, who will surely be going into hiding quite soon, Four Lions (trailer here) must be considered the boldest satire of the year when it opens in New York this Friday.

Omar is the outward picture of respectability—a hardworking family man, who just happens to be a devout Muslim. He also wants to martyr himself in a terrorist attack and his loving wife seems to be okay with this. Welcome to today’s Britain. The see-no-evil media has not prepared you for what you are about to witness.

Pursuing his ambitions, Omar and his lunk-headed friend Waj head off to Pakistan to enroll in an Al-Qaeda training camp, but they turn out to be terrorists who cannot shoot straight. Returning to his British cell demoralized Omar figures they ought to at least be able to blow themselves up in suicide bombings. Even that seems to be beyond the capabilities of “Azzam al-Britanni” or Barry, an Anglo convert blowhard. Hassan, the would-be rapper-hipster, does not inspire much confidence either. Still, as dumb as they might be, if you load these blokes down with enough explosives, they could cause an awful lot of suffering.

To his credit, Morris pull no punches whatsoever in Lions. He makes it explicitly clear Omar’s cell is motivated by their Islamic fervor. There is no masking their anti-Semitism either. Perhaps most damning though is the film’s depiction of ostensibly cooler heads, like Omar’s wife, who ought to intervene, yet she consistently supports his death wish.

This is explosive stuff, but it is also quite funny, mixing sharply penned satire of a high order, with low slapstick comedy. It might be a heavy statement, but Lions really is the closest thing to The Great Dictator for the era of Islamist terrorism. Indeed, like Adenoid Hynkel, Chaplin’s caricature of Hitler, the film uses broad humor to subvert the powerful image of Al-Qaeda and their ilk. As Omar, Riz Ahmed makes a credible (and ultimately chilling) straight man amid the literal insanity of his terror cell. Yet, Nigel Lindsay’s outrageously bellicose, more-Islamic-than-thou Barry generates the biggest laughs and takes the most risks. Frankly, he is also quite fortunate not to have a fatwa on his head.

Fours Lions must be the bravest, edgiest comedy of the year, even supassing Josh Appignanesi’s The Infidel (which was pretty bold itself). Yet, in a very real sense, it is sad how daring Lions seems. Unfortunately, American filmmakers have utterly abandoned the obviously fertile field of Islamist terror send-ups to the Brits. At least, Morris is up to the challenge, shaming Hollywood by delivering the comedic goods in spades. Probably the funniest film of the year, Lions opens this Friday (11/5) in New York at the Angelika Film Center.

Wende Flicks: The Mistake

The personal should not have to be political, but it always was in the former DDR, often with tragic consequences. As a still attractive woman of advanced years, Elizabeth Bosch ought to be able to pursue a September romance with a handsome visitor to her provincial town in relative peace and privacy. Yet, since he is West German (a Hamburger), their affair attracts the wrong sort of attention in Heiner Carow’s The Mistake, the best and final film of the Anthology Film Archives’ Wende Flicks retrospective, which concludes at the landmark East Village theater this coming Wednesday.

Elizabeth Bosch has always cleaned up after other people, yet she does not even have hot running water in her modest pre-Wende East German home. That means she and her visiting grandchildren must take their baths in the yard, which catches the eye of the wandering Jacob Alain. Though he starts off on the wrong foot, he quickly wins over Bosch. It is not as if he has much competition, aside from Bosch’s boss Reimelt, a small man unfortunately blessed with a measure of power. The town’s slovenly mayor, he blusters about the hard work of building socialism unaware that it sounds like a punch-line to the weary Bosch.

While Bosch and Alain might ordinarily prefer to take things slowly, they simply do not have the time. For a while they make do with letters and all-too brief rendezvouses in East Berlin, but the situation is clearly not sustainable. When Bosch’s older Party loyalist son announces his promotion, it further complicates matters. Now family contacts with the West will come under increasing scrutiny.

Mistake is a sad but wise love story that also serves as a pointed reminder of what life was like under Communism. Bosch does not even have hot water, yet the Stasi still takes an active interest in her romantic affairs. It also pays tribute to those who stood up to injustice in the DDR, bringing together Alain, Bosch, and her younger son Holger at a candlelight Christmas prayer service for East German dissidents. Yet, it all has remarkable emotional heft thanks to finely nuanced work of its leads.

Angelica Domröse and Gottfried John look like an attractive, warts-and-all couple who we would like to see together. Yet, we know the system is stacked against them. Domröse is especially compelling, finely balancing strength and vulnerability as Bosch. It is one of the great unsung performances of world cinema.

One of the best cinematic depictions of mature romance, Mistake is an outstanding film. It is also a heartrending and infuriating document of life under the oppressive Communist system, yet its inescapable political implications never eclipse the human drama. Highly recommended, it screens this Wednesday (11/3) in New York as the concluding film of the Anthology Film Archives’ Wende Flicks retrospective of the East German DEFA film studio’s final productions.