Spent several hours today getting the precious thirty-odd seconds of stop-motion animation required to bring to life Mike the Headless Chicken, who is (or, rather, was) indeed very, very real.
The "Mike" section of Olivia Forever! comes early in the film, and it is the first of many digressions from the story proper. If it falls flat, chances are the rest of the film will as well. (No pressure or anything.)
The Mike puppet was constructed by our good friend Steampunk Legend Jacob Hildebrandt, who also brought to life the Robot Lady in Son of a Seahorse and The Man Who Loved in The Man Who Loved. He likes building things, is pretty good at it, and likes money, so if you need something built, want it to turn out pretty good, and like to give people money, he just might be your guy.
The Mike footage/sequence is getting more tinkering in post than is per usual for us, and that's because we're looking to replicate a very particular and peculiar look. We're utilizing a lot of the grammar of silent cinema (albeit in widescreen) and purposefully putting in jumps, spatial jitters, and mucking around with the contrast to "degrade" the footage.
It's the kind of thing we want to be careful about-- we don't want to look like arty-farty homage-happy dinguses. We don't want the form this sequence takes to distract from the experience but rather enhance it. We'll have to wait and see how well we do with that.
I reviewed Ryan Andrew Balas's second film, Carter, back in June; on November 24th, it will be playing at New York's Anthology Film Archives. In anticipation of his film's premiere, Ryan and I had a short discussion via e-mail, about Carter, dividing audiences, the biblical Jephthah, and improvisation. (Spoilers below, though knowing what happens in the film spoils none of the magic of how.)
TOM: Sminch. The name itself is a little odd, Jeb Sminch, and he has these big glasses and moustache, he has this very particular body language, this very peculiar way of looking at things, his vow-- every aspect of his character seems to otherize him, to keep us at a distance, on the outside. We never really get to "know" him. Was this something that was planned from the outset? Was the question of "why" he does it ever intended to be resolved, even obliquely, or was it always a MacGuffin, a way to get the story going, to get us into this world and these characters?
RYAN: Jebadiah Sminch, as a character, is designed to have some moral ambiguity. I feel like it's important that he asks more questions than he answers, not just on an intellectual level but to serve as a defense mechanism to the aspects of life and himself, that he doesn't really understand. From the story point of view, the concept is certainly an entrance into a life that has a lot of layers but nothing about Jeb Sminch was created to merely push plot. I just wanted to spend time exploring someone who found this life to be so absurd that they felt they deserved the last laugh.
TOM: To be clear, I didn't mean to imply that anything about him was created mechanically for plot purposes-- he's a very organic and I think well-drawn character-- it's just that the film operates so much outside of him, that it is, as the title implies, really from Carter's point-of-view, and that, even after he "explains" why he's doing it, the audience, like Carter, still doesn't have a full understanding. I think-- and I could be wrong about this, as I certainly haven't sat down and measured it out minute-by-minute-- but I'm pretty sure Carter actually has more screen-time than he does, and other than the short prologue, she's given the first and the final scenes, the first and the last word, if you will. What prompted the decision to focus on Carter or to approach Sminch mostly through her eyes?
RYAN: Everything returns to Carter. As we shot the film, I found this to be true, over and over, the world seemed to revolve around Carter. For Jeb, it's not so much about whether or not he is ready to go through with his vow, but if he can truly leave her. We made the decision, after shooting the first bedroom scene with Julia (Carter), that we needed to see Jeb Sminch's life through the reflection in her eyes. I think, at some level, Carter represents the part of Jeb, that doesn't really understand this life. She is the question, he's asking.
TOM: So would you say that the greater emphasis on Carter evolved during the production? I know that the film's dialogue at least was largely improvised-- how improvised would you say the film was structurally/stylistically? Did you always have the same ending in mind? Or how about the scene with the two women going through his clothes?
RYAN: Yes. Absolutely. I felt that even when we were shooting stuff with Jebadiah alone, the scene was still screaming Carter. In the end, when he is looking in the bathroom mirror, I just hear him repeating her name over and over in his head.
The film's concept is based off of a one act stage play that I wrote in 2006. The play is about 15 pages, and takes place on Jeb's 25th birthday. We shot that script and it was going to be our "daring" 15 minute, no cutting, opening to the film. It simply didn't work. And was the first to hit the cutting room floor. However, some of it has made it back into the directors cuts. As we began to see that the story was going to be stronger told as Carter reflects on the past few days---structurally the film became wide open with possibility. For the majority of the film, I had an outline, with locations and conversation topics to work off of. We shot a majority of the film in order, basically applying the information we gained in one scene and using it at the next location, ultimately have a solid emotional direction for the climactic arc that takes place at the park. I knew what I was looking for, but I had to work to find it. The film was improvised, like jazz is improvised, we had a foundation to work off of.
Conceptually, the ending has always been the same. However, the film's ending is far more open than the stage plays ending. The stage play "A life in rewind" is the sort of answer to all the questions. It will be on the directors cut dvd, in one form or another. And like I said---aspects of it, have been cut into the final directors cut of the film. As a side note, I remember work shopping the original stage play in class, in LA, and trying to justify it as a dark comedy by saying that it's funny like an old lady falling out of a window could be funny. That concept still needed a little work.
The scene with the two women dressing up in Jeb's clothes, was shot a few weeks after the rest of the movie, and after had already done a rough assembly of the film. I felt it was important to explore Carter's life, after Jeb. I think there is something oddly sexual, and equally maternal about that scene and that is pure jazz.
TOM: It's my favourite scene in your whole picture, and the two women play off each other very well.
RYAN: Thanks. It's probably my favorite as well.
TOM: How much did Sminch change, as a character, from the play to the film? And Carter? A lot of improvisational filmmaker depends on a person's natural charisma or draws on their personality/experience. Was Carter based in some ways on Julia Porter-Howe? Her performance certainly seems more naturalistic than Mark Robert Ryan's. (And, as I'm sure you're aware from watching the acting in my own film, I don't mean that as a knock against Ryan; was that performance more "constructed" in any way?)
RYAN: Jebadiah, as character, has remained fairly consistent. In the stage play, I played the role, so there were aspects of my personality, and physical tics, and so when Mark was given the role, he brought his interpretation of those qualities along with a whole new set of ideas, and quirks. Jeb is still Jeb. Stubborn, absurd and sincere.
I think the character development for Mark, and Julia has to be understood in the context in which they each related to the material.
Jebadiah Sminch views life as being absurd, and so I think Mark approached the character as an absurdist. This doesn't mean that he didn't personalize the experience, but the performance had to come from some place darker and more mysterious. On the opposite end of that spectrum, Julia connected with the suicide aspect of the material on a more personal level. She has experiences in her own life, that allowed her to connect more naturally with the way Carter approached Jeb.
As the director, I'm always searching for the real moments, the aspects of my actors personal character that can be used in the context of the story that we build. I think this kind of improvisational approach to work, allows there to be more naturalistic performance and creates a deeper personal collaboration with the people I'm working with. So in short, yes, Carter is based entirely on Julia Porter Howe and Mark Ryan, as they experience extraordinary circumstances.
TOM: I like how you describe Sminch as being stubborn and sincere. There's a certain religious aspect to his character-- the way he says that his suicide vow is sacred and holy because it is a promise to God. There's a certain similarity to the biblical Jephthah and his vow, the way he backs himself into a corner, perhaps rashly. And of course the names Jephthah and Jebadiah sound quite a bit alike; was this an intentional link for you? And: would you consider yourself at all to be a religious person?
RYAN: That's a really interesting connection, that I wish I could say is intentional. It's not.
However, the name Jebadiah is meant to sound entirely biblical, and the "Jeb" is Israeli for "Beloved Friend". I'm really fascinated by this link between our Jeb and the biblical Jephthah. The idea of making a rash vow to God, and the connection with a sole female character. Jephthah is forced, by a vow to God, to kill his only daughter. And in many ways, our Jeb is doing something horrible to the only woman in his life. Good find, Sir! That's the beauty of interpreting art (Can I call it that?!), we can find connections outside of intention, based on our own personal experiences with the work.
I'm interested in being a human being. Does that make me religious? I don't know. I think it's very interesting how much culture factors into one's religious experience. I'm a Midwestern transplant, so I'm certainly deeply impacted by an average religious upbringing. However, the question of God was never really posed until I moved away from that influence and I began to really deconstruct my existence. I can say this, I'm curious what happens when we die. There are times when I think we become dirt and other days I imagine something larger, more profound. Even more, I find something really profound about dying and becoming the soil that the tree's growing their roots into my body. Ultimately, we find purpose and that's why we go on. I feel that, at some level, I make very spiritual films. I don't think that means I'm professing answers, but really, I'm asking questions, and to me, that's a far more spiritual experience.
TOM: I'd agree that Carter has a spiritual aspect; that opening waking-up sequence especially is very striking, the attention it pays to movement and light, to time itself-- it begs introspection without being at all verbal. And then, to contrast that, you have the scene in the office, which is frankly very profane, and also very verbal, where you have Sminch's coworker talking about men have sex with horses and suggesting that they rape people while they sleep. It's a very vulgar character, and while he serves as a foil for Sminch and the scene itself as a foil for Carter and her first scene, do you think it might be a little bit too much? Or is a "little bit too much" entirely the point?
RYAN: In a way, I hope these sort of "spiritual" questions I'm attempting to ask, can act as the through line that connects all the work, as a whole piece. And someday, I can look back at my films, and have a bolder, more articulate understanding of where I'm going.
The question "is it too much?" is reason alone, for that scene to be in the movie.
Yes, Jeb's friend is extremely vulgar. He talks about sex in a perverse, disgusting manner. The idea of "sleep fucking" is horrible. But, as I watch him, I'm reminded that he's human. And more so, I hope to be reminded that I'm human. As for the experience Jeb is having, it's far bigger than that. Jebadiah is faced with the ugly side of being a human, and it's perverse and all a "little bit too much". He is mentally preparing to end his experience as a human being and the only bit of solace he has left, is humanity, and it's currently suggesting they make a porn website and rape sleeping people. In a dark way, they are both searching for a "real" experience.
I chose to juxtapose the morning introspective scene with Carter and the darkly profane office scene with Jeb and his friend because I don't want to make safe films, I want films that reflect my own humanity. The beautiful, the curious and even the darkly perverse.
TOM: Do you think these darker aspects of humanity have anything to do with Sminch's decision? Do you think the ugliness in the world is part of what compels him, part of what he finds absurd about it?
RYAN: I think its certainly an aspect of what he finds absurd, but I don't know if I would necessarily say that it's what compels him.
Jebadiah wants to be in control of his life. His vow is a self fulfilling prophecy. He could have chosen to save himself and get married to someone, anyone, before the deadline. In a way, he gave fate the opportunity to deliver, and was let down. So he committed to his own path. Mark Ryan once described the character as "wanting to be his own God".
I think the ugliness in the world certainly effects Jeb, but he accepts it as truth, just the same as he accepts the taste of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with soda. TOM: Let me come back to the idea of not making safe films, which is something that I admire and an ambition that I share. Did you ever worry about turning off a chunk of your audience with that scene that might have really appreciated the rest of the film? John Grisham once said that a lot of people didn't get past the first few pages of his first book because of how graphically he described the crime, even though the rest of the book was nowhere near that graphic. Do you worry about something like that happening with "Carter"? Or is that part of not being "safe"?
Honestly, I can't say that I've lost sleep over it. This isn't any disrespect to my audience, in fact, it's because I think they are viewing the movie with an higher intelligence level than me. I feel that I've set up the first scene to establish what the film is going to feel like, as far as tone and time go, so the first thing I wanted to do was shake it up a bit. We open on this beautiful image of Carter waking up, and we see, without knowing it yet, what Jebadiah is going to lose. This is juxtaposed with the uglier side of Jeb's life, the shallow surface level aspect. I feel it let's know what it's truly at stake. I also wanted to give Donald, Jeb's friend, the opportunity to be judged and redeemed within a two scene character arc. First we despise him, then we learn to respect him for his deep concern about the grave vow his friend has made. He seems shallow, but within two interactions, the layers unfold. This opportunity to have a second impression, is hopefully another reminder of our own humanity.
I think some people will be thrown off by this, and some critics have certainly slung mud at the concept, but there is a part of me that's excited about this. I've heard it said, that love and hate are almost the same thing. I could lose half an audience by doing something that the other half loves. I've got to stay true to my instincts. I think as time goes on, they will become sharper and I'm going to have a better sense of the best ways to communicate a specific idea to an audience. Ultimately, the only loyalty I have, is to my vision.
I feel no responsibility to follow traditional structure. I think it's safe, and commercially responsible at times, but it's not contributing to the art form. More so, it's not helpful to me, as a filmmaker, to set guidelines in which to work. I want to learn as much as I can from experimenting with time, image and sound and how they can be used to connect with the inner workings of other human beings.
TOM: Would you say that working at a lower budgetary level allows you to experiment? If you were to be given oodles of money-- assuming, of course, you're interested in taking it-- would you feel a need to be less experimental and more "commercially responsible"?
RYAN: I'd say, in the case of Carter, and my first film Sandcastles, spending my own money gave me a lot of freedom to mess up.
My new film "Mother Sister" is crowd funded, and so the major responsibility I feel, is to make a great film. This doesn't meant that I'm being less experimental, I'm just working harder to learn from my mistakes and communicate my idea's the better than before. I would like the generous supporters of my new work, to have a film that they really enjoy and connect with. That's my hope. I'm still trying to be as experimental as ever when it comes to production structure and the way I shoot films, I'm just a little more intentional about it now.
Now If I were working within a system that had financial investors and their was an obligation to make money back in order to continue making "bigger" stories, I would simply bring the right kind of story to the table. I approach each film, looking at what resources will be available to me, then create my story around those circumstance. I'm not writing $75, 000 movies and making them for $5,000. So financial support or not, It's really about the story and what I can say with what I have. I'd like to see my work as being somewhat of a good investment, the production cost is low because the crew is minimal, I shoot everything digital and I have an amazing, talented group of supportive collaborators that care about the work. My web series "The Really Cool Show" is the most "commercial" thing that I make, and it cost's me the least to do. It's got over 9 million views, and with the right business structure, it has potential to be a fiscal success. And we've always just experimented and did whatever we wanted. I don't think there is a true model for financial success, but to make films that you really care about.
TOM: How well would you say Carter communicated the ideas you wanted to communicate? What would you have differently, look at it in hindsight? What do you think you learned from the experience as a filmmaker?
RYAN: I started with a character, and that character was Jebadiah Sminch. I had no idea how much he loved Carter, until we began shooting, and after that, the film wrote itself.
If I would have made the film in any other window of time, maybe it would have been edgier, and pushed the relationship further. I don't know. These films are made during a really special window of time, in which our reality completely shifts and we give in to these beautiful creative monsters that live inside of us. I don't judge them, I learn from them. On that note, The only technical regret I have, is that the sound isn't perfect. I learned not to trust home made xlr to stereo mic jack converters.
TOM: Was Jeb not going through with it ever a possibility? The whole structure kind of hinges on it, and it totally works, but I'm just wondering if there was ever a point where you and Mark Robert Ryan said, "maybe..."?
RYAN: On the morning of Jebadiah Sminch's 25th birthday, Carter wakes up early, she is careful not to disturb a sleeping Jeb. She walks into the bathroom, as per her normal routine, except today is different, today she is going to switch Jeb's sleeping pills with placebo's. The deed is done. She has left two sleeping pills in the bottle, so that Jeb will fall asleep believing he succeeded but awake to find Donald, Maggie and Carter having what was supposed to be his last laugh. Carter exits the apartment en route to get a cake, and breakfast for the birthday boy.
Jebadiah, opens one eye and listens carefully, making sure Carter is gone. He gets out of bed, walks into the bathroom, reaches into the bottom cabinet, and reveals a second bottle of real sleeping pills, he pockets them and exits the bathroom...
Tom had known Mary for a couple of years-- not well, but casually, and well enough to have a little crush-- when he invited her to tag along on one of the shoots for his new film. The film itself isn't all that important: it was, in the end, a manifestly terrible piece of work, a cynical and completely misanthropic film that had nothing but contempt for its characters. The person who made that film scarcely resembles the person writing these words today. And yet, somehow, miraculously, Mary saw the latter in the former and fell in love with him. And I'm so very glad that she did.
And while I think our love was built slowly, bit-by-bit over the years, evolving into a fast friendship and then, wonderfully, something more, I can pin-point the very moment that my infatuation, my attraction, my crush on her exploded madly with passion and desire.
It was on that shoot. I had set up my actors on a couch-- in those days, all my scenes took place on couches, so much so that the joke going around the set was that next time, the couch would move-- and my camera was at one end on the couch, glaring at them in profile. Or, at least, it was supposed to; situated at each end there sat a pillow. Not a big pillow, just the sort of ordinary square pillow that adorns any couch worth its cushions. But it was big enough to obscure my camera's view of the actors as I tried to frame my close-up.
And so, I started cranking up my tripod-- an old photographers tripod, really intended for sitting photographs, another reason for my commitment at the time to cinema du sofa-- to try and peer over the pillow. When that seemed to not be working, I tried tilting the camera upwards. No dice. I adjusted the tripod again. I got my dolly-- by which I mean, of course, a block of wood with some casters on the bottom-- and placed the tripod on it to gain some extra height. Still wasn't quite what I wanted.
This went on for a few minutes, constantly making adjustments, continually getting frustrated. And then, Mary got up off her chair, walked to the couch, grabbed the pillow, and, without saying a word, sat back down with the pillow on her lap. The shot was very quickly framed and, as they say, in the can.
Mary moved the pillow, and my heart skipped the beat.
We've (by which I mean, Mary and Tom Russell, the filmmakers behind Son of a Seahorse and The Man Who Loved) been ready to shoot Olivia Forever! (by which I mean, our next feature film, a comedy/period piece) for about a month now (by which I mean, a period of four to five weeks). The only thing that's been prevented us from leaping right in is that we've been waiting on a new shotgun mic, which was supposed to ship, well, almost a month ago, and which has yet to arrive.
But: be it known that our film takes place in the autumn, and this being November and Michigan, autumn is a commodity that will soon be in short supply. But, you say, couldn't you just rewrite it so that it takes place in the winter or the spring, you scrappy and adaptable no-budget filmmakers you? Unfortunately, no, because the film takes place during a very particular autumn-- to wit, the autumn of 2004. You can't really "fudge" or move an election season.
And so, knowing that we needed to shoot some exterior autumnal scenes while said exteriors still looked autumnal and scenic, and fully aware that the all-important microphone might not arrive for some time yet, we reworked said exterior autumnal scenes and removed the dialogue. (We are, after all and as noted above, scrappy and adaptable.) And then, today, we shot two of them: scenes eleven and twenty-four are in the can. Or, more accurately, on a hard drive.
We're generally not "click on this link" bloggers, but, um: click on this link. This is seriously cool stuff, and if you're not following The Siren's blog you're definitely missing out.
There's been a picture printed on the front page of the Dearborn Press and Guide a couple of times in the last month or so from the last election, featuring Mayor Jack O'Reilly, challenger Michael Prus, and some doofus on the end who looks like he might be picking his nose. I am that doofus. (No, I'm not picking my nose. Just thinking.)
A number of people have recognized me from the photo, and asked if I was running again. No, I'm not, but I think more people have asked me about my candidacy in the last month than ever asked me when I was actually running. And part of that is because I really ran as a lark, with full knowledge that my chances of winning were next to nil. I just tried to have fun with it, which is why I did a video comparing municipal financing to the arcade game BurgerTime, and why I campaigned wearing a fuzzy yellow bathrobe.
A bigger reason why I didn't get much attention, however, was that there were so many of us running. If anyone was going to beat Mayor Pro Tem O'Reilly, it would be because so many of us fractured and split the vote. Looking back at it now, with the knowledge that O'Reilly won in a landslide, such concerns seem a little silly. But back then, I was worried.
Because even if my candidacy was a deliberately Quixotic act, I still did and do care deeply about my hometown. Some of the other candidates were even more unqualified than I was, or, if they had educational credentials, their ideas were nonsensical or dangerous. One candidate said he was going to create new revenues by cutting taxes. Another thought he could change the shape of U. S. foreign policy from Dearborn's City Hall. These are not people you want running our city during a difficult and tumultuous time.
There were other ideas that were well-meaning, but ultimately of little utility. Sure, having a "Ford Dream Cruise" might be nice, but it wouldn't do much to support Dearborn's biggest tax payer in real world terms. And I'm not sure if a city-wide lottery would really shore up any of our budgetary problems.
When I was running for mayor, I actually said, if you don't vote for me, than vote for O'Reilly. Because the thought of anyone else in City Hall (which, in all honesty, would include myself) was terrifying. That still holds true today. For what it's worth, this doofus is giving his endorsement to Mayor O'Reilly.
That's not to say he's done a perfect job. Progress has been slower than many of us would like, especially regarding development in the west end. There have been disappointments and setbacks. And he is not quite the communicator that his predecessor was.
But he is a good and honest man. He has investigated charges of corruption with integrity and has always been candid with the people of Dearborn. He has the skills, knowledge, and experience that we need at this crucial time. Progress is being made, but like all real progress, it takes time, especially given the state of things across our great nation. I am completely certain that patience will be rewarded, and that Dearborn will really flourish in the years it is under O'Reilly's stewardship.
In the last election, I was immensely proud of winning 82 votes, many of them, I gather, from strangers. That's 15,978 votes less than Mayor O'Reilly, and 19 votes more than his challenger, Mr. Prus. If those eighty-two are listening, this doofus asks you to give your vote on Tuesday to Jack O'Reilly.
(Tom Russell is a life-long resident who makes films with his wife, Mary. Their latest, SON OF A SEAHORSE, is available on DVD from Amazon.com. His opinions are his and his alone and do not reflect in any way, shape, or form the opinions of his employer.)
When someone tells me that deadpan comedies leave them cold-- that, for example, Jim Jarmusch is only concerned with being "hip" or Wes Anderson only with how he arranges objects in the frame-- I wonder if they're watching the same films that I am. Deadpan comedies are not about suppressing emotions but about accessing them; the anguish on the screen for me has always been palpable, and the characters are usually larger-than-life, completely consumed and defined by their depression, their alienation, or their inability to connect with others.
What those people who don't "get" deadpan are really saying is not that the films lack warmth, affection, and emotion, but rather that the emotions on display make them uncomfortable, and they certainly didn't come to a comedy to, you know, go through an actual emotional experience, to actually think and feel. Comedy equals autopilot, while deadpan demands attention. And I feel sorry for them, because they're really missing out on experiences that will make them not only better cinephiles but also better people.
Almost every great deadpan comedy is an act of sympathy for the putatively unsympathetic, and this holds true for Azazel Jacobs's* The GoodTimesKid. Consider, for example, the character that Jacobs himself plays: a wiry, surly mass of pointless, directionless rage, angry at everything and nothing. This character, one Rodolfo Cano, starts fights (clad in boxing gloves and a cape made from an American flag) for no obvious reason, screams and scowls at and rushes out on his girlfriend, Diaz (Diaz), and enlists in the army, also seemingly unmotivated.
His call-to-service letter ends up being sent to another Rodolfo Cano (Gerardo Naranjo); this Rodolfo has an expression that is so self-depreciating that Diaz dubs him, not unfittingly, "Depresso". He is most assuredly a passive figure, the exact opposite of a self-starter. He spends most of the film following others: he follows the other Rodolfo to the latter's home, follows Diaz on her way to the bar where her Rodolfo is getting the snot beat out of him, follows the other Rodolfo for what appears to be an entire evening as he walks around aimlessly. There's a great gag in the first following sequence when the angry Rodolfo comes to a stand-still, and Rodolfo the Follower does the same, stopping next to a tree. A sudden cut takes us from brisk daylight to black evening, and there's Rodolfo, still next to the tree, still waiting for Rodolfo to make a move.
There's a scene in the house where Depresso-Rodolfo watches Diaz beat up a chocolate birthday cake in anguish, then start pounding on the refrigerator, smearing it and her dress with cake before plopping down in front of it. Diaz looks up at him, and demands, "Who the fuck are you?" In answer, he punches and kicks the refrigerator, than slides down next to Diaz. It's a moment of bonding, almost a ritual of initiation, but there's a delicious irony in that, even in this moment, he is still following somebody else's lead. (The film's ending, which will remain unspoilt here, gives this running gag its most logical, apt, sad, noble, and generous punchline.)
By naming both his male leads Rodolfo, Jacobs of course asks us to compare and contrast them. We might align our sympathies more readily with Depresso-Rodolfo than his angrier counterpart, but they're not really so different. Consider the scene in which Depresso-Rodolfo and Diaz hide from the former's girlfriend, as said girlfriend pleads for him to open up and let her in. Isn't that really what Diaz herself asks of her Rodolfo in the film's opening scene? Diaz knows what it's like to be that person on the other side, beating on the door. And maybe this new Rodolfo might not be the perfect replacement he at first seems.
What's interesting about this moment, this parallel, is that it's almost tossed away; while they hide from Rodolfo's unseen girl, our intrepid duo play with a flash-light, comically shushing each other and making faces. Because of this, the parallels are still allowed to register, but they never call attention to themselves, never metastasize into Big Obvious Points.
This is what I like about deadpan comedies: themes are still dealt with, emotions still explored, but in a sideways kind of way that helps to make the often heavy material more bearable. Anger, depression, longing, loneliness, and the mysteries of why we hurt the people we love and why we do the things that we do: these are all important and potent ingredients in Jacobs's concoction, but they never overpower his comic sensibility and the deep compassion he feels for his characters.
This compassion is most evident, I think, in the remarkable monologue Jacobs gives to the Rodolfo he himself plays. Temporarily stripped of his rage and vulnerable, seemingly willing to relinquish Diaz to the new Rodolfo (another parallel: he's just as capable of being passive, and perhaps his anger is tied up in that), he talks about Diaz, about how special and how rare she is.
This is the guy who began the film by storming out of the house; this is the guy who returned home just long enough to yell at Diaz before running out to start a fight at a bar; this is the guy who comes home with another woman and crashes on the couch; this is the guy who, in his next scene, will suddenly start to attack Rodolfo. This guy-- who my wife dubbed Rage-O in homage to Diaz's own coinage of Depresso-- is the guy who gets the most poetic expression of emotion. If we don't-- I don’t want to say "identify", as that's not quite the word-- but if we're still completely outside this guy, still completely rooting for Depresso-and-Diaz, then I dare say this scene, and perhaps the film itself, would cease to work. Quite a gamble, that.
But for this viewer, at least, it did work; this sudden yet oh-so-quiet explosion of feeling hooked me completely, and when the film had come to its end-- when Depresso-Rodolfo does something that is at once completely within his character but also an uncommon act of, dare I say it, nobility-- it is completely satisfying and makes complete sense because of this scene.
It is, then, the pivotal scene, the one that sets the film's final act (and final actions) into motion. And this scene depends on a guy who is almost defined by his unfocused anger. It's a testament to Jacobs's abilities as an actor and director, as a creator of tone and of flow, that the scene works. The little parallels between the two Rodolfos, and between Diaz and her doubles, register obliquely; the deep wells of emotion and turmoil that gush within all of these fucked-up and angry people (the Rodolfos and Diaz are all a little defensive, all attacking or being attacked, all wary of others) seep through the long quiet moments, the surreal-yet-underplayed gags, the droll-but-at-times-pointed dialogue. Our sympathies for and understanding of the Angry Rodolfo are created almost by osmosis, seeping in undetected, until they surprise us in that monologue, in that moment.
This sort of surprise, this culminative effect, this is, for me, the promise of deadpan comedy. In this case, it is a promise that is fulfilled.
The GoodTimesKid came out on DVD this summer, the sixth release from Benten Films. I own all but one of their titles, and can recommend them wholeheartedly: (1) Joe Swanberg's LOL (which, full disclosure, I'm sort of but not really in-- long story); (2) Aaron Katz's Quiet City and Dance Party, USA (packaged together); (3) Todd Rohal's The Guatemalan Handshake; and (5) Kentucker Audley's Team Picture. I haven't seen Benten number four, Matthias Glasner's The Free Will, which is two and a half hours long, in German, and about a sexual predator-- not exactly the sort of thing I'm personally clammering to see-- but, what the hey, I'm going to recommend it anyway because Benten's track record is impeccable: good films, great packaging, perfect transfers, loads of extras. Everything you could want from a DVD, really.
*-- "Form the possessive singular of nouns with 's. Follow this rule whatever the final consonant."-- Strunk & White, mofos.
That quote, of course, comes from this review of Carter. Balas's film will be playing Nov. 24 at New York's Anthology Film Archive.
If anyone else out there has a film they'd like me to review, please don't hesitate to contact me via e-mail (that's milos_parker at yahoo dot com) about sending a screener my way. It should be noted that if I don't like the film in question, I'll give you the option of not having me review it-- but if you ask me to go ahead, I ain't going to pull any punches.
Features running between an hour and an hour-ten, maybe hour-fifteen, incredible rarities since the B pictures flourished and faded (and by "B" I mean of course the second-half-of-a-double-bill other-side-of-a-record "B", I mean Mexican Spitfire's Elephant coming after Citizen Kane and not, you know, a modestly-budgeted genre picture), are making a sort of comeback-- if not exactly as a part of the mainstream filmgoer's experience, at least not yet, then as a part of the cinephile's. Digital video, the great democratizer, has allowed non-traditional people to make non-traditional films with non-traditional running times.
Having seen (and made) a few films that run skinny, I can say that the shorter running time isn't exactly automatically a cause for excitement. I've seen (and, uh, made) a lot of films that are still far too long at seventy minutes. The filmmaker, wanting to chase the "legitimacy" of feature film, extends a premise that would have been more at home at, say, twenty minutes, maybe thirty, forty at the most, far past the breaking point (I should note, in the spirit of "please buy one of our DVDs", that we're not trying to sell any of the over-extended films Tom made before he met his Mary). Some filmmakers even go as far as to lie about the running time, with the disc face itself proclaiming that it's 80 minutes when we know full well that it's only (yet, strangely, excruciatingly) 65.
But every once in a while, there's a film that packs its 65 minutes with ideas, explored fully yet obliquely-- a film that makes you wish there was another half-hour to look forward to, yet leaves you feeling satisfied. One such film, peering a few decades back, was 1967's The Firemen's Ball, the delightful sociological comedy that is still one of Milos Forman's best films. Another is Josh Bernhard's The Lionshare.
I do not make this comparison lightly; to my mind, the two films have more in common than the slim running time. Both films are comedies that explore sociological phenomenon with a light but occasionally biting touch; both come at their respective subjects a little sideways, making points in such an oblique and organic way that they don't feel like points at all, that they only register on a subconscious level-- which ensures that the films will last beyond the current sociological climate, that they have things to say about life when their subjects have been regaled to relics.
Granted, those subjects aren't exactly equal: Forman made a film about communism and Bernhard about file-sharing. Forman's film is "banned forever" in his native Czechoslovakia, and he was nearly imprisoned for doing "economic damage to the state". Bernhard's film will never be quite so contentious. And so we'll bid that particular comparison adieu.
Bernhard's treatment of his subject is more complex and subtle than it first appears. The film's first scene follows a first date that quickly becomes a search for a copy of the film Ghostbusters. The male half of this heterosexual pairing, young filmmaker Nick (Mike Pantozzi), has seen it but the distaff half, Eva (Jessi Kneeland) has not. Blockbuster's copy is in use; Nick says that he'd buy another copy for this occasion, but where would they find a copy to buy?; Eva suggests using the titular (and fictional) file-sharing network, the Lionshare, to download it. And so, they head back to her place and, as they wait for the film to download, they drink, they kiss, and then they do some file-sharing of their own, if you know what I mean.
At this first glance, the film seemed decidedly pro-file-sharing; after all, it got the guy laid. Moreover, it seemed to go to some lengths to excuse its characters from any culpability for their piracy; after all, they went to Blockbuster like law-abiding citizens, and they were thwarted! He had intended to buy another copy-- another copy, so he already owned it!-- but may have been thwarted as well! File-sharing was a last resort, and if the film had been available when and where they wanted it in the first place, there wouldn't have been any problem. Of course they wanted to do it legally, but they were really left with no choice.
Does this line of reasoning sound familiar? It should. It's behind the obnoxiously stupid argument that all art should be free, and that for an artist to seek some kind of monetary compensation is some form of gaucherie, if not a crime. It's the justification I used to seek out and download ROMs of old Nintendo games. The justification you used, perhaps, to burn a copy of a friend's DVD. A justification that, frankly, doesn't hold water, but that we use to make ourselves feel okay about our theft.
And so, ten or fifteen minutes in, I was more than a little worried about where this was going, a worry that was in some ways deepened by the knowledge that this film was being distributed through a Creative Commons license. That is, a film that is meant to be freely distributed. Not that that in particular bothers me-- as someone who makes freeware games, and as someone who got a free copy of this film from the filmmaker, I have nothing against such a spirit of generosity-- I just got the feeling, that's all, that because this film is being put out there for free, that the film was also advocating putting everything out there for free.
But that's not true; as I said, the film's attitude towards its subject is actually fairly complex. It's neither pro-piracy or anti-piracy, pro-free or anti-free. Shortly after Nick starts using the file-sharing network, he discovers that he has to maintain a certain uploading-downloading ratio; that is, he needs to put some files on the network before he can take any more. He grabs the music of his friend Bracey (Bracey Smith) and puts it online.
Bracey discovers this and is less-than-pleased; that music wasn't finished, in his opinion, and he didn't want it getting out there for anyone to download. But before you can say, "Aha, now Nick knows how it feels" or otherwise impose some sort of morality on this little photo-play, Bracey is signed to a record deal... because of someone who downloaded those files.
But that doesn't mean the film is "ultimately" coming out in favor of file-sharing, nor does it mean that the film is simply and stupidly reporting "both sides" like a spineless nightly newscaster or a "teach the controversy" idgit. I would say, in fact, that the film's concerns go beyond something as small as file-sharing; it provides, instead, a nuanced look of the notions of ownership in general, whether we're talking about art, friendship, love, or schtick, and how networking-- whether by computer or face-to-face-- changes those concepts.
A couple of examples, to better explain what I mean by all that arty-farty gobbledygook.
The girl, Eva, introduces Nick both to the file-sharing network and a band called Apple Curry, and through the former he listens to the latter. Later in the film, he comes across one of the band's songs on the radio, and this upsets him: the band has sold out, the radio chose the worst song from the album, et cetera. But what's really irking him is that the band doesn't "belong" to him anymore. He's no longer the cool insider, privy to some obscure piece of musical magic.
And note the double standard here: when Nick's friend Bracey is brought to the attention of a record company, Nick is of course very happy for him, even feeling a bit proud, if not vindicated, about his role in bringing that about. Bracey hasn't sold out; if Bracey's songs dominate the airwaves, if the stations pick the "worst" song, Nick likely wouldn't be irked. That's because Bracey still "belongs" to Nick exclusively as a friend. Others might have access to the music, but Nick is still part of that special in-crowd.
And if it sounds like Bernhard is simply scoring points about this particular psychological mechanism, one that's in no short supply among film buffs and music aficionados, then I've done him and his film a disservice; more than simply making points about ownership and exclusivity, he registers the emotions, the sense of loss, that accompanies the growth of any meme. Nick and his friends have an in-joke of sorts, a pet phrase: "Bear Fact." What starts as facts about bears morphs into something completely different, something that has nothing to do with bears.
This is something that happens with any group of friends. For example, at my place of employment, whenever somebody drops something, we say "Paris Hilton". There was a reason for this-- trust me, it did, at one time, make sense-- but we don't have way of explaining it to new coworkers or onlookers in a way that sounds reasonable. My wife and I have a number of phrases and rituals, but I'm not going to share them; they're ours.
The fact that they're ours and only ours makes them special; it deepens the bond between us, and their regular usage, these pet phrases and rituals, are expressions of love and affection. If someone else were to spy on them, we would feel violated; if someone else were to use them, it would be crushing.
And this is what it feels like for Nick when Eva, the girl who started it all, having been transformed (in the movie's cruelest and yet gentlest, most absurdist, joke) into Bracey's girl, uses "Bear Fact." In fact, she uses it incorrectly ("polar bear fact"), and Nick's rage is sudden and chilling. Both "his" girl and the pet phrase he "co-owned" have been "stolen". Sharing, whether it be of physical things, of art, of moments, or of people, can create both opportunities and sadness, sometimes in the same click of the mouse.
MARY & TOM RUSSELL are married, self-distributing filmmakers. $3.34 of every DVD sale ends up in our pocket, and allows us to continue making personal, original, and hopefully wonderful films. Thank you for your support.
