“From the ruins, lonely and inexplicable as the sphinx, rose the Empire State Building and, just as it had been a tradition of mine to climb to the Plaza Roof to take leave of the beautiful city, extending as far as eyes could reach, so now I went to the roof of the last and most magnificent of towers. Then I understood … everything was explained: I had discovered the crowning error of the city, its Pandora’s box. Full of vaunting pride the New Yorker had climbed here and seen with dismay what he had never suspected, that the city was not the endless succession of canyons that he had supposed but that it had limits – from the tallest structure he saw for the first time that it faded out into the country on all sides, into an expanse of green and blue that alone was limitless. And with the awful realization that New York was a city after all and not a universe, the whole shining edifice that he had reared in his imagination came crashing to the ground.”

(Good Pictures/Bad Camera is a regular feature on IFB.)

“In the early afternoon it was always quiet, the whole place tossing slowly in tropical repose, as if the building itself swung on a miraculous hammock. And then the dimming effects of food and drink would begin to wear off and we would remember why we were there, to buzz and chime, and all would bend to their respective machines. But there was something wonderful about that time, the hour or so before we remembered. It was the time to sit on your sofa instead of behind the desk, and to call your secretary into the office and talk in soft voices about nothing in particular – films, books, water sports, travel, nothing at all. There was a certain kind of love between you then, like the love in a family that has shared so many familiar moments that not to love would be inhuman. And the office itself seemed like a special place, even in its pale yellow desperate light, so much the color of old newspapers. There was the belief that you were secure here, in some emotional way, that you lived in known terrain. If you had a soul, and it needed to be rubbed by roots and seasons, to be comforted by familiar things, then you could not walk among these desks for two-thousand mornings, nor hear those volleying typewriters, without coming to believe that this was where you were safe. You knew where the legal department was, and how to get a package through the mailroom without delay, and whom to see about tax deductions, and what to do when your water carafe sprung a leak. You knew all the things you wouldn’t have known if you had suddenly been placed in any other office in any other building anywhere in the world. And compared to this, how much did you know and how safe did you feel, about, for instance, your spouse? And it was at that time, before we remembered why we were there, that the office surrendered a sense of belonging, and we sat in the early afternoon, pitching gently, knowing we had just returned to the mother ship.” 

The Artist is Present – a stunning new documentary from HBO Films – provides an in-depth perspective on performance artist Marina Abramovic’s critically-acclaimed body of work, culminating with her 10-week installation at New York City’s Museum of Modern Art back in Spring of 2010.

At the time, Abramovic’s installation made headlines due to spiraling demand, the inclusion of several live nude models (some positioned in such a way that visitors needed to brush up against them in order to proceed), and the fact that fans were afforded a rare opportunity to sit one-on-one with Abramovic for several minutes in utter silence.

Like most of her performance pieces, Abramovic is the main attraction here. While conceptual purists may question the inherent wisdom of granting TV cameras full access to the creative process, they’d also be hard-pressed to deny the raw power and magnetism of this film.

In addition to the MoMA installation, Artist also traces Abramovic’s work back to its roots, including early acts of sadomasochism, self-asphyxiation, self-flagellation, and even month-long bouts of fasting … almost all of which occurred while Marina stood stark naked in front of the world, for several minutes – or perhaps even hours – on end.

To wit: Throughout the 10-week run at MoMA, Abramovic sat still and steady (albeit clothed) for seven-and-a-half hours a day, six days a week … staring straight into the eyes of willing participants, almost none of whom she’d previously met.

Before it was all over, the MoMA engagement attracted more than 750,000 visitors, many of whom would spend entire afternoons just milling about the periphery, observing how Abramovic interacted with her subjects.

For those who didn’t have the opportunity to see the MoMA installation, Artist provides a very real sense of how and why Marina Abramovic continues to set the avant-garde world on fire. For those who did have an opportunity to visit MoMA during that time, or perhaps even take a seat across from Abramovic for 10-15 minutes, it’s a compelling look back at one of the most memorable installations in modern art history.

Either way, you should definitely make an effort to see this film.

It’s fascinating, on a variety of levels.

The end.

(Marina Abramovic: The Artist is Present opens at Film Forum in New York City for a two-week engagement starting June 13th, with a broadcast debut on HBO on July 2.)

Paul Williams cut an odd figure way back in the mid 70s – all poppin’ collars and cranberry suits, amber-vision glasses and gut-busting waistline. Williams was all of 5’2, with chubby cheeks and golden locks, kind of like what Edgar Winter would look like if a warehouse safe somehow landed on his head.

But that was then, and this is now.

Now, Paul Williams looks kind of like a wise and aging mogwai. And, what’s more, he’s 22 years sober. Both of these things help form the basis of Paul Williams: Still Alive – a charming documentary that follows Williams in real-time as he plays unremarkable gigs in Winnipeg, the Philippines, and the barren outskirts of Las Vegas.

The documentary paints a compelling portrait, to be sure. And it explains a great deal about why Williams seemed to have completely fallen off the map so many moons ago. But it falls short in the sense that it never really digs beneath the surface to dish the dirt on just how bad off Williams really was at one point, and how hard he had to fight and claw to will himself through recovery.

This is the meat and potatoes of how Paul Williams got to where he is today … a much healthier, less-recognizable shadow of his former self. And this is sadly missing from a documentary that seems much more preoccupied with unnecessary minutia, like Paul’s undying love of squid and the filmmaker’s ridiculous fear of traveling in the Philipines.

The problem here is (Director) Stephen Kessler’s fanboy allegiance to Williams, his acute fear of upsetting the man by attempting to ask anything the least bit daring, and his sheer unwillingness to risk their new-born friendship by challenging Williams to explain any of the broader issues that really matter most.

The whole thing comes full-circle in the end, and there are some really heart-felt moments during those closing minutes … moments during which Williams is forced to confront what a spiraling mess he was just before he hit rock bottom. But it’s far too late at that point. The film has already wasted a great deal of its time waxing eloquent about a fascinating icon from the 70s who somehow managed to fall so deep and hard down the rabbit hole, a great deal of us very naturally assumed he was dead.

(Paul Williams: Still Alive opens in limited release in major markets across the country this coming Friday.)

Here are 18 leaps of faith any viewer must make in order to enjoy Rob Reiner’s new film, The Magic of Belle Isle:

1. That the decision to name a movie about an attractive divorcee and a man who represents his own island The Magic of Belle Isle is not a very poor choice of metaphor.
2. That the appropriate reaction after an unruly drunk in a cowboy hat fires off two warning shots from a gold-plated pistol in the middle of your six-year old’s birthday party is to break into laughter and say, “Well, I guess it’s time for cake!”
3. That the idea of a drunk, aging writer who has lost the narrative thread is not one of the most played-out cliches in all of Hollywood.
4. That naming your daughter Willow Tree is not a silly, pretentious thing to do.
5. That doggy humor is not the screenwriter’s equivalent of mailing it in.
6. That full-grown men who are mentally handicapped hop around like bunny rabbits all day long.
7. That full-grown men who are mentally handicapped can be programmed to stop hopping around like bunny rabbits at the drop of a hat.
8. That it’s not the least bit odd that the full-grown man with a mental handicap in this film has the same first name as Rob Reiner’s father, Carl.
9. That a proud and brilliant black writer would choose to devote his life’s work to singing the praises of a wild west cowboy as the personification of wholesome American values.
10. That a proud and brilliant black man who writes about cowboys would just so happen to be named Monte Wildhorn.
11. That an entire town would collectively wrap its arms around a miserable old drunk who tells each of them to fuck off in no uncertain terms, because they’re all just such wonderfully, well-adjusted human beings.
12. That Fred Willard is not horribly miscast here.
13. That all birthday clowns are pissy, arrogant, grizzled assholes.
14. That mothers don’t get the least bit aggravated when their daughters go digging through their childhood diaries.
15. That completely irrational fairytale endings are always the best way to go.
16. That the song “Don’t Worry, Baby” belongs anywhere in this film.
17. That Rob Reiner was once the director of an Oscar-nominated film.
18. That this film would’ve been the least bit coherent had it not been for Morgan Freeman.

(The Magic of Belle Isle is now available on Video on Demand with a national theater release scheduled for July 6th.)

“The whole process allowed me to continue when life itself offered very little, when life itself was a horror show. There was always the typer to soothe me, to talk to me, to entertain me, to save my ass. Basically, that’s why I wrote: to save my ass, to save my ass from the madhouse, from the streets, from myself … I had the bottle and the typer. I liked a bird in each hand, to hell with the bush.”

(Good Pictures/Bad Camera is a regular feature on IFB.)

Here comes a scoutmaster, with no real ability to lead. There goes a cheating housewife, so distant that she communicates through a megaphone. Here comes her idle husband, so dizzy and blind he can’t see what’s right in front of him. Here comes Social Services, wearing the dazzling blue robes of a jailer. There goes an unwanted orphan, determined to blaze his own trail. Here comes his mistress, the raven, who’s nursing a broken wing.

Here they all are, set adrift on Misfit Island, running amuck amidst the same vile storm that’s been threatening for years.

It’s a unique angle, to be sure … albeit not on the cult-classic scale of previous Anderson outings like Rushmore and The Royal Tenenbaums. The pacing here is similar, and so is the dialogue. But Moonrise suffers from the obvious drawbacks that arise when casting knee-high leads. This is not to disparage any of the child actors in the film. It is only to acknowledge that they are child actors, after all, tackling some very adult themes.

Yet the beauty of the film is that Anderson manages to keep those themes light. He captures the essence and abandon of first kisses, first love, discovery and danger. And he does it in such a way that it all feels very child-like, without seeming the least bit child-ish.

In the end, Moonrise Kingdom serves as a charming reminder that we spend most of our formative years being told how to act more like adults, and most of our grown-up years trying to recapture that feeling of youth. No matter who you are, or where you’ve been, that cycle inevitably repeats itself, over and over and over again, till you’re lying on your death bed some day, trying to tell anyone who’ll listen, how altogether fleeting and wonderful the whole goddamned thing really was.

Wes Anderson, as usual, is way ahead of the curve on this one.

(Moonrise Kingdom opens in limited release in theaters across the country today.)

What follows is a comprehensive breakdown of alcohol-related expenses I incurred between the years of 1992-2012. Numbers were compiled using a combination of bank statements, credit card statements, check receipts, invoices, bar bills, municipal fines, court documents, legal receipts and cocktail napkins. Obviously, it’s next to impossible to hit a 20-year figure like this on the nose. But rest assured, no totals were included that could not be substantiated by some type of tangible proof. On the rare occasion close estimates did become necessary, the policy was to always err on the side of caution, thereby avoiding any irresponsible inflation. Accuracy was – and is – the constant goal.   Continue reading →