Film Capsule: Blackfish

Blackfish is one of the best documentaries of the year, a significantly touching piece of rhetoric that evokes equal fits of pain, anger, sadness and empathy. A great deal of the commentary included in the film – almost all of which was provided by whale experts and ex-Sea World employees – is extremely pro-mammal, veering toward the rather obvious conclusion that these creatures were never meant to be isolated (I mean, we’re talking about killer whales here, for Christ’s sake. What further proof do you need?).

Anyway, Blackfish is not only an important documentary, it’s easily the most fascinating new release you’re likely to come across this weekend. This film makes a poignant enough argument that the current Sea World PR machine is falling all over itself in an ongoing effort to discredit the whole thing. Thematically, Blackfish strikes a familiar chord, one that we’ve heard resonate several times via pulpits and protests, newspapers and movies, political campaigns and government hearings. Namely, why in the world does profit motive always seem to trump just about every rational argument for human dignity and decency?

Sadly, I’m fairly certain we all know the answer.

(Blackfish arrives in limited release today.)  

Film Capsule: Only God Forgives

Esteemed Writer/Director Nicolas Winding Refn would like you to know something: The strong-silent type – arguably the most identifiable of all American archetypes – was originally the expressed province of the East. Assuming Refn is to be believed, that archetype may steadily be shifting its way right back toward southern Asia … back to a place and time which never really agreed to relinquish it in the first place.

I mean, the whole thing’s a little bit confusing, sure, what with all the complex layers of sex and death and blood and gore and shades of crimson red and black. But the bottom line is this: the much-anticipated reunion between Drive‘s Ryan Gosling and Nicolas Winding Refn represents a significant letdown, to say the least. The major sticking point throughout being that there’s very little meat worth digging into here. Kristin Scott Thomas plays a nasty fucking trollop with an acid tongue, Vithaya Pansringarm plays some geriatric mystic with a jones for karaoke, and Ryan Gosling plays the dutiful son – a borderline catatonic who measures every movement and speaks in three-word snippets. The entire film is a bold and bloody and sometimes-even-baleful ball of beeswax. And I’ll have words with any varmint who says different.   

(Only God Forgives arrives in limited release and Video OnDemand today.)  Continue reading

Film Capsule: The Act of Killing

At some point a few years back, independent studios experienced a major run on holocaust documentaries. The angles were almost always left-of-center – stock footage from the Warsaw Ghetto, previously undisclosed testimony from the Nuremberg trials, the plight of Polish gypsies during Nazi occupation. Despite the wide range, every one of these documentaries was inconceivably vile … perhaps necessarily so. If you were a full-time movie critic during that period – or even a freelance reviewer, for that matter – rarely would a month go by without one one of these films appearing on your docket.

I mean, consider for a moment the myriad reels of actual footage; of human beatings and gas showers and bloated boxcars barreling toward Auschwitz; of wanton cruelty and injustice, of bodies lying strewn about, set for loading onto wheelbarrows … set for dumping into landfills. A few months in, the nonstop rash of screenings began to feel severely draining.

In fact, draining might be the ideal descriptor for Joshua Oppenheimer’s The Act of Killing – a two-hour fit of brilliance during which real-life executioners from Indonesia are tasked with producing a low-budget motion picture focused on their own atrocities. Said atrocities go far beyond the average mass murder, the sum total of them bordering upon genocide, claiming an approximated 1,000,000 victims (the overwhelming majority of whom were accused of being Communists) throughout the mid-to-late 60s.

At the center of it all was Anwar Congo, an executioner-cum-patriot who speaks of his war crimes as if they were legend. Congo likens himself to a necessary evil, a misunderstood gangster whose intentions served the greater good.

The Act of Killing‘s approach is a major gamble, to be sure. But it pays off in spades, specifically because the aging Indonesians still perceive themselves as freedom fighters;unrepentant white hats slashing through a sea of red. Meanwhile, the majority of the moviegoing public will heretofore recognize them as motion picture’s greatest foil; a low-rent cluster of ne’er-do-wells perennially wading dick-deep in the muck.

Mainstream critics are going apeshit over Oppenheimer’s documentary, which is to be expected, given the project was executive-produced by both Werner Herzog and Errol Morris. And yet, there exists a very obvious dichotomy, what with the majority of major media outlets having spent the past few days denouncing Rolling Stone‘s decision to place Boston Bombing suspect Dzhokhar Tsarnaev on an upcoming cover. Seems a bit hypocritical, no? Praising the release of an independent film about an executioner while condemning the portrayal of a domestic terrorist as rock star? In essence, what critics are really submitting to here is the notion that comedy equals tragedy plus time.

But I digress.

Truth be told, the digital stream I was using to watch The Act of Killing froze up about an hour and 10 minutes into the film. Try as I might, I simply could not get it to proceed beyond that point. This may very well have been the result of my constantly stopping and starting the film in order to jot down notes or revisit a specific segment. A lot of these digital streams are hard-coded to avoid any risk of piracy, and I may very well have sprung some type of firewall. The point being, I never really did get to see how Anwar Congo’s self-made Commie picture turned out. Then again, I didn’t really need to. Historically speaking, I’m pretty sure I know exactly how that godforsaken bloodbath turned out way back in the mid-60s. I harbor very little interest in watching it turn out that way again.

(The Act of Killing opens this Friday, July 19th at Landmark Cinemas in New York with plans for a national rollout to follow.)

Continue reading

Jonathan Lethem on Proximity People (2009)

“People who work at counters and make you wait while they answer the telephone, privileging the customer on the phone over the one right in front of their face, the one who made the trip, got out of bed, appeared in person. People who interrupt the phone call with the person who called first to use call-waiting to take the call from the person who called second. People who get to the counter and make the person waiting at the counter wait while they talk on their cell phone. People who glance at their email when you’re in the room. People who use hand-held devices to glance at their emails while in your house. People who borrow your computer or hand-held device in order to glance at their emails. People who answer emails from people they do not know with great alacrity and full capitalization and punctuation while replying slowly and with few if any capitals or punctuation marks to the emails of their devoted friends. People who unfriend their friends while friending their unfriends. People who do not acknowledge the person. Persons who are not personal.

People who visit parties and ignore their friends, do not dance with the one that brung you. People who have more time, more munificence, more courtesy, for strangers than for their friends. Children who love their uncles and aunts more than their father and mother, their cousins more than their siblings. People who have a picture of Jesus Christ or John F. Kennedy or Abraham Lincoln on their wall, as if Jesus Christ or John F. Kennedy or Abraham Lincoln was their relative. People who use the first names of celebrities. People who shorten the names of or create nicknames for those they don’t know or barely know, in order to seem more familiar, especially in cases where people who are actually familiar with those named would never shorten their name or use a nickname. Rotisserie-baseball fans who never go to a baseball game or follow a ‘real’ team. Married people who develop crushes on waitresses or bank tellers.

Those who speak to the invisible, the remote, those not present, while disfavouring the visible, the proximate, the present. Those concerning themselves with ghosts. Clergy of all types. People who wear pictures in lockets of grandparents they never knew, even as they disdain or neglect living uncles or aunts. People who construct family trees or visit genealogical web sites but are brusque and rude to strangers on the subway. Those who adopt animals but not children. Eaters of fish but not pork.

People who concern themselves with the fate of slaves in distant capitals they have never visited and would never visit. People who read the International section before they read the Metro section, or never read the Metro section. People who read eagerly of discoveries of planets orbiting distant stars in unreachable galaxies. Anyone interested in SETI (the search for extra-terrestrial intelligence). People who watch the Oscar telecast but don’t go to movies. People who watch a telecast of celebrations in Times Square at midnight on New Year’s Eve. Lip-synchers. Karaokeists.

People who read stories about imaginary people while real people stand before them unsung and unappreciated. People who read stories and experience real emotions while finding it difficult to feel real emotions when presented with the difficulties of their living friends. Science-Fiction people. Historical re-enactors. Pen-pals. Those who fall in love remotely, projecting cherished values onto those distant from them, values that they never identify among those nearest to them. Constructors of time capsules. People who write in journals or diaries never intended to be read during their lifetimes. Anonymous authors. Anonymous donors. People who comment anonymously on the blogs of their friends. People who at parties glance over your shoulder while they speak with you, searching for a better option. Necrophiliacs.

Those studying foreign languages, especially dead languages. Students of Esperanto or Klingon. Those mourning the deaths of royalty. Those who love or hate anyone they’ve never met. Catholics drinking wine and eating wafer. Readers of secondary sources before primary sources. Archaeologists and anthropologists. Those cherishing extinct species. ’Pay It Forward’ people. Sexaholics. Doctors Without Borders. Mimes who follow people on the street.

People who use time machines to prevent the crucifixion of Jesus Christ or the Kennedy or Lincoln assassinations but would not use time machines to apologize to those they personally disregarded in fourth or fifth grade.

Lawyers for the unborn. Pro-lifers. Autograph hounds. Strangers who interfere in private arguments on the street. Fans. Ventriloquists. Ventriloquists on the radio. People who listen to podcasts while in the presence of others. Ham-radio operators. Stamp collectors, with their glue-tabs and albums, adorers of the tenuous papery whisper of what comes from afar, soaking envelopes to reclaim cancelled stamps, discarding the envelopes, ignoring the addresses, never noticing the names of the original recipients, the persons for whom the letter was intended, cherishing instead the postage.

Above all, writers.

Ernest Hemingway on Bravery (1929)

“‘The coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave but one.’ … The man who first said that was probably a coward. He knew a great deal about cowards but nothing about the brave. The brave dies perhaps 2,000 deaths if he’s intelligent.
He simply doesn’t mention them.”

Galleria: Asbury Park at The Jersey Shore @ Rick Wester Fine Art

Brass RingWe’ve all played the word association game when it comes to Asbury Park, New Jersey. There’s Springsteen and The Stone Pony and that one episode of The Sopranos where Tony winds up talking to the fish. But the beautiful thing about Joe Maloney’s work is that it manages to drill down deeper, exposing the ambient town beneath – the sights, the sounds, the circuit, the community. Here we see a choral ensemble singing at sundown on the boardwalk, there a grown woman riding the midway carousel, still reaching for that golden ring. The majority of photographs included in this exhibit were taken during 1979 and 1980, each of them snapped between Seaside Heights and Asbury Park. The timing is ideal, what with a slew of multi-million-dollar gentrification projects suggesting that – despite Sandy and slumlords and a variety of other sinkholes along the way – Asbury Park may possibly, finally, be ready for its close-up again.

(Asbury Park at The Jersey Shore runs through August 16th @ Rick Wester Fine Art, Free, 526 West 26th Street.) 

Five More For The Offing: 

  • Summertime @ Jenkins Johnson Gallery (Free, through 8/30, 521 West 26th Street)
  • Everyday Epiphanies featuring various artists @ the Metropolitan Museum of Art (Free with suggested donation, through 1/26, 5th Avenue at 82nd Street)
  • Present Perfect by James Viscardi @ Ana Cristea Gallery (Free, through 8/3, 521 West 26th Street)
  • Anne-Lise Coste @ Eleven Rivington (Free, through 8/9, 195 Chrystie Street)
  • personal, political, mysterious featuring various artists @ FLAG Art Foundation, (Free, through 9/7, 545 West 25th Street, 9th Floor)